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4 







tRONTUjPIELE 







PEM AQUID 


A STORY OP 


OLD TIMES IN NEW ENGLAND, 


py 

/ 

Mrs. E^.PRENTISS, ' 

AOTHOX OF “stepping HEAVENWARD,” “tHB HOME AT GREYLOCK,” * TH* 
FLOWER OF THB FAMILY,” BTC., BTC. 


NEW YORK 

A. D. F. RANDOLPH COMPANY 

103 FIFTH AVENUE 


?Z3 


18944 

COPYRIGHT, 1877, BY 

ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY 

THE A. D. F. RANDOLPH COMPANY 


^0 COPIES f?£C£IV£D. 






D 

PEMAQUID. 


I. 


“ The wicked flee when no man pursueth.” 

MRS. PICKETT’S VERSION. 

A t last T breathe freely. Away down in this 
little Eastern village of Pemaquid I shall find a 
safe retreat from my enemies and persecutors. It 
was a happy thought that brought me here. Time, 
it is true, will hang heavy on my hands at first, but 
with all my resources and devices I shall soon adjust 
myself to my new circumstances. And what are 
these circumstances ? I spend my nights in a room 
that has been shut up from the profane eye for a 
quarter of a century. By dint of opening every win- 
dow, and banishing the hideous green paper curtains, 
the musty odor of this grim apartment is beginning 
to become endurable. My days I spend in a room 
yet more religiously closed, more grim, more musty, 
which rejoices in the name of parlor. ‘ Cousin Snell,* 
as my worthy relative terms herself, has not yet 


8 


FEMAQUID. 


recovered from the shock of my innovations, but 
looks on with speechless horror and amazement. 
She’s not much of a cousin, to be sure, but one must 
humor her in some things. Poor creature, she may 
have had some coloring once, but time has faded her 
out till she looks like the ancient fly-specked sheet 
of gingerbread one sees in shop-windows in out-of- 
the-way places. Take a broom, and put upon it a 
dabby calico dress, and there you have her. Like all 
the other ‘ ladies ’ in Pemaquid, she does her own 
work. Her husband, ‘ Lawyer Snell’ — Lawyer, in- 
deed! — is off to his work, whatever that maybe, at 
five in the morning, bearing huge sections of pie for 
his dinner. How these Yankees eat pie. As for my 
beloved Cousin Snell, her range of thought is un- 
speakably narrow. To get breakfast, to get dinner, 
to get supper ; to make bread, cake and pie, pie, pie ; 
to go to ‘meeting’ twice on Sunday and on one 
evening in the week ‘ conference ’ — behold her life. 
A wholesome break in this monotony is my sudden 
advent, with my wardrobe, which she reveres, my let- 
ting the sunlight into her coffin-like rooms, and all 
my works and ways, the sight of which fills her with 
silent awe. 

I shall live here gratis as long as I can. Then, 
when I become boarder instead of guest, I shall 
have to resort to strategy. It will not be very hard 
to circumvent a creature as weak as Deborah Snell. 

For one thing, I must pretend to great sanctity 


MRS. PICKETTS VERSION, 


9 


These Puritans, though no better than any other 
people, make great parade of their piety, and wear it 
round in wondrous pomp and vanity. 1 flatter my- 
self that I can play the hypocrite as well as they. 
The trouble will be with Juliet , that amiable child 
may be in my way. 

There is a fine-looking man at meeting every Sun- 
day. As straight as a poplar, with an eye as clear as 
a lake, and a forehead as white as snow, set off 
against a cheek reddened and browned by the sun ; 
will do if I can find no higher game. Yes, Squire 
Woodford, you have the honor of being my prospect- 
ive almoner, if you did but know it. Widowers 
always marry again, and I shall take him by storm — 
if I choose. There are two children : one a gawky 
boy, the other a little mouse of a girl, with exquisite 
blue eyes, a mass of golden ringlets, and a complex- 
ion that even I envy. It would be the easiest thing 
in the world to worry her out of the house ; but 1 do 
not know about the boy. 

Lawyer Snell is in the habit of making a long 
prayer through his nose, every evening, an act he 
designates as ‘ family worship.’ Fortunately I have 
still a few novels, as yet unread, with which I can 
amuse myself while devoutly kneeling at my wooden 
chair. Juliet is far more ill-mannered, for she sits in 
hers, reading openly. My dear cousins are loo rapt 
in devotion to observe our little peculiarities. Going 
to meeting is more of a bore than this pious custom. 


10 


FEMAQUID. 


as I can’t take books there, and I must sit and listen 
to the Rev. Adoniram Strong — strong only in name. 
He rolls the thunders and flashes the lightnings of 
the law upon us in a most vainglorious way. He 
and his wife have been here to call on me. Two 
seedier mortals it would be hard to find. And as to 
their sanctimony ! — well, good taste before all things, 
I say. She is a little pat of butter, round and unctu- 
ous, always giggling, and then catching herself up, as 
if laughter were a sin. He is a tall, lean, hungry- 
eyed mortal, who fasts and prays till one can count 
his ribs. Then there are Deacon Johnson and his 
wife ; and they must needs call too. Goodness ! can 
I be I ? With all my accomplishments, all my good 
looks, pinned down for life to such associates as 
these ? What have I done that I should be banish- 
ed from regions where I could support myself in lux- 
ury, and forced to hide my head in this obscure re- 
treat? Yes, what have I done? Who can prove 
anything against me ? My husband might have had 
his suspicions — of course his mercenary relatives 
took care that he should — but nobody knows my 
story, just as it is, or ever will know it. Ah ! there’s 
that babbling Polly Hanson, has put two and two to- 
gether, and might get me into trouble ; but there are 
a thousand miles between us now, and if there were 
not I would defy her to her face. The truth is, I am 
the victim of circumstances. Why did my parents 
bring me up to value money beyond everything in 


KEZIA MILLETS VERSION. 


11 


heaven above and the earth beneath, and persuade 
me, a young, giddy, inexperienced girl, to marry that 
suspicious, miserly old fox? What could come of 
such a marriage but dissension and misery? And 
now I am driven forth, homeless and almost penni- 
less, who expected to be soon rid of my burden and 
left with a fortune fit for a princess. Until he dies I 
can not marry again, and the tough old creature 
may live these ten years; who knows? And they 
track me from city to city, overthrow all my schemes 
for supporting myself, and almost drive me to dis- 
traction. Well, I must live, and must get round 
somebody somehow. My poor father and mother, I 
suppose I broke their hearts for them ; but it was 
their own fault. They brought me up to all I did. 

KEZIA millet’s VERSION. 

‘‘Have I come home for good? No, I haven’t 
come home for good. 

“ Am I sick ? Well, did you ever know me to be 
sick? Now, mother, you jest stop asking questions, 
and let me ask you a few. Aint I been a white 
slave to the Squire ever since Mis’ Woodford died? 
Aint I a master-hand at knocking off work? Did you 
ever see any apple-dowdy equal to mine ? Aint my 
pot-pies fit for King George, if he is a king ? Why, 
I’ve made pies enough to carpet the whole town if I 
had all together at once ; and as for bread and 


12 


PEMAQUID. 


biscuits, why, theyVe ate a thousand apiece if theyVc 
ate one. And aint I been as good as a mother to 
them children? .Haven’t I walked the house with 
’em nights when they was babies? Haven’t I watch- 
ed for every tooth they cut ? Haven’t I carried ’em 
through the measles and the hooping-cough, and had 
’em inoculated for the small-pox? You’re gittin’ 
bewildered, and don’t see what I’m running on about, 
and you wish I’d sit down like a Christian, instead 
of rampaging round the room like a beef-critter. 
Well, I’ve heaved over a good d^eal of ballast, and 
feel easier, and I believe I will sit down and begin at 
the beginnin’. 

“You see, one evening, just as Lawyer Snell and 
Mis’ Snell was a-sittin’ down to tea, the stage drove 
up to the door, and out steps a fine lady and a little 
girl. Mis’ Snell, she had an old yaller bandanna 
handkerchief round her neck, and hadn’t no front- 
piece on, nor no cap, and there was her old gray hair 
a-showing; and Lawyer Snell, he hadn’t no coat on, 
for it was a hot day, and he’d been a-diggin’ round 
some trees, and his shirt-sleeves was about the color 
o’ mud, and here was this great lady a-knocking at 
the door. 

“‘You open it,* says Mis’ Snell, ‘while I put on 
my front-piece and cap.’ 

“ ‘ Open it yourself, while I put on my coat and 
wash my hands,’ ses he. And then, before you could 
say Jack Robinson, in, came the lady, walks up to 


KEZIA MILLETS VERSION, 


13 


Mis* Snell and hugs and kisses her, and calls her dear 
cousin ! Mis’ Snell, she couldn’t think of nothing but 
her front-piece and two cracked cups and saucers on 
the table ; and O, if she only had her best Sunday- 
go-to-meetin’ clothes on, and her best tea-set out 
and why hadn’t she mistrusted something, and stirred 
up a loaf of cake, she wanted to know ? 

“ But, la ! my lady said what a nice, cosy house it 
was, and what delicious bread and butter, and what 
a picture Pemaquid was, to be sure ! And when Mis’ 
Snell whipped out of the room and popped on her 
front-piece and best cap, my lady cries out : 

“‘You don’t mean to cover that ex^2/wite gray 
hair of yours with a frizette as black as horse-hair? 
Why, you were quite a picture in your exquisite gray 
hair ! ’ Mis* Snell, she was well-nigh tickled to death , 
and then they got to talking, and my lady, she said 
her name was Pickett, and that she had married 
young and been left a widow, and in her sorrow and 
sadness had bethought herself of her dear cousin at 
Pemaquid, and had come a thousand miles to see her. 

“ ‘ But I aint got no cousins,’ says Mis’ Snell ; ‘ the 
nearest to it was Mis* Grigs, and she was only a 
second cousin.* 

“ ‘ Yes, and that was my mother,* says Mis* Pickett, 
‘ and how she used to talk about you ! And if ever 
you get into any kind of trouble, my child, she would 
say, go to Pemaquid, where Deborah Snell lives, who’s 
the best and kindest and dearest woman in the world.’ 


14 


FEMAQUin. 


“ Mis’ Snell disremembered ever seein’ Mis’ Grigs^ 
and was dreadfully ashamed of herself when she found 
her cousin thought so much of her. And she felt 
proud that such a beautiful-dressed lady should cross 
her humble threshold (them’s her very words), and 
she went and made up the bed in the parlor chamber, 
and got out her best towels, and drawed a pitcher of 
water out of the cistern, and filled the best pitcher, 
and Mis’ Pickett said she was tired and would retire 
early. Retire, indeed ! The next mornin’ Mis’ Snell 
got up at four o’clock, and if there wasn’t all the green 
paper curtains a-settin’ out in the entry ! And about 
eight o’clock Mis’ Pickett comes down a-smiling, and 
said she wasn’t used to sleepin’ on feathers, and had had 
a restless night ; but she had opened all the windows 
and let in all the air she could, and expected to sleep 
beautifully in future. Mis’ Snell was nigh upon 
faintin’ away when she heard that the sun was a-shin- 
ing onto her parlor-chamber carpet, and the flies 
lightin’ on her best dimity quilt, and her mother’s 
old easy-chair. And then Mis’ Pickett says, all so 
sweet, ‘Will you show me the parlor?’ and goes in 
and slams open the blinds and makes it as light as 
day, and sets down there and goes to sewing. And 
Juliet, that’s the little girl, walked about on the sofy, 
and reached over and handled all Mis’ Snell’s elegant 
books as if they were her’n. Mis’ Snell didn’t dare 
to say a word, but she felt almost beat cut. And she 
come over to our house to see if we’d got any bees- 


KEZIA MILLETS VERSION, 


15 


wax; and says she, ‘Kezia Millet, weVe got the 
elegantest lady at our house you ever see ; she sets in 
the parlor, if you’ll believe me, and my best caipet is 
a-fadin’ dreadful. But she’s only come to make a 
little visit, and I suppbse city folks is different to peo- 
ple in Pemaquid.’ Well, I didn’t mistrust nothin’, 
and I lent her half a loaf of bread,, because she had 
bad luck with her’n, what with her flustration about 
havin’ them winders all hove open. But every day 
she kept expectin’ Mis’ Pickett would go away ; and 
when she didn’t, it was a comfort to the poor soul to 
come and tell me about it. She thinks everything of 
me. Mis’ Snell does. And by degrees she let out 
that she was beginnin’ to be afraid Mis’ Pickett wasn’t 
livin’ consistent. She didn’t keep fast-day at all, but 
ate everything just the same as other days, and 
wouldn’t touch the beautiful bean-soup that the rest 
of ’em lived on. And they never see her readin’ her 
Bible, neither. Mis’ Snell thought she ought to be 
faithful to her, but was afraid to, and it was a burden 
on her conscience. She asked me what she ought to 
do ; and ses I, ask her if she enjoys religion. ‘ I will,* 
ses she. So the next Sunday she just up and asked 
her. Enjoy religion?* ses Mis’ Pickett, ‘of course I 
do. I enjoy it of all things.’ ‘ I suppose city folks 
enjoy it in a different way from country folks,’ ses Mis’ 
Snell. ‘ Don’t city folks do no fasting? ’ ‘ Why, no ; 
they do feastin’,’ says Mis’ Pickett. ‘ Well, I never ! * 
ses Mis’ Snell. ‘The people in Pemaquid would no 


PEMAQUID, 


le 

more eat pie or cake or anything solid ou Church 
fast-day than they’d fly. Bean-soup is all we allow 
ourselves; and old Mis’ Weed, and Deacon Stone, 
and Mis’ Harris, and lots of others, never eat a morsel 
of anything all day long.’ * How often do you have 
em?’ ses she. ‘The Church fast is once in three 
months, and the State fast once a year,’ says Mis’ 
Snell. 

“ ‘ How queer!’ ses Mis’ Pickett. 

“ ‘ It’s not at all queer,’ ses Mis’ Snell. ‘ It’s as 
solemn as the grave. Why, we go away into our bed- 
rooms, and git down on our knees, and mourn over 
.■lur sins till you might wring water out of our hand- 
kerchiefs.’ 

“ ‘ I had no idea there were any such dreadful sin- 
ners in this innocentrlooking little village,’ ses Mis’ 
Pickett. 

“ ‘As to that,’ ses Mis’ Snell, gittin’ fiery — as who 
wouldn’t — ‘we’re angels, wings and all, compared 
with city folks, from all I’ve heerd.’ Mis’ Pickett 
looked as if she wanted to say something, but held in. 
She’s the greatest hand at holdin’ in I ever see 1 It 
was the fust of June she came to Pemaquid, and when 
it got well into July, Mis’ Snell began to feel as if it 
was about time her dear cousin went away. The girl 
hadn’t her mother’s faculty at holdin’ her tongue, and 
she told Lawyer Snell to his face that he was an old 
hypocrite, and she told Mis’ Snell that she wasn’t 
nothin’ but a cook, and didn’t know B from a broom- 


KEZIA MILLETS VERSION. 


17 


stick. So Mis’ Pickett, she comes a-prowling over to 
our house — * And how’s that lovely little protegy of 
your’n, Mis’ Kezia?’ ses she. 

“ ‘ My name’s Keziy,’ ses I, ‘ and I aint got no 
progedy.’ 

“ ‘ O, I mean no offense ! ’ ses she ; * but my heart 
went out to that angelic child the first time I saw 
her,’ ses she. 

‘ Dew yer mean our Ruth ? ’ ses I. * She aint no 
angelic child. She’s just little Ruth Woodford, if it’s 
all the same to you,* ses I. Yer see there’s no com 
ing round me, mother. 

“ ‘ I thought the little creature might be lonely,’ ses 
she, *■ and would like to run over and play with my 
little daughter,’ ses she. 

“ ‘ I guess Ruth Woodford aint lonely when she’s 
got Keziy Millet all to herself,’ ses I. 

“ ‘ The Squire must be lonely, at all events,’ ses 
vihe. ‘Do you think he’ll marry again, my good 
woman ? ’ 

“ ‘ I dare say he’d have you, if you asked him,’ 
ses I. 

“ ‘ Dear me ; you’re quite a character,’ ses she. 
‘And I do love transparency! ’ So then she slouched 
away on her soft toes — and I could have killed her! 

“ Is that a Christian spirit ? No, of course it aint 
a Christian spirit. 

“Don’t 1 wish I wasn’t so outspoken? No; I’m 
glad I’m outspoken. I wouldn’t be a mealy-mouthed, 


18 


jPEMAQUID. 


sugar-and-honey kind of a creature, like that Mis 
Pickett, if I was to suffer. But you don’t see why 
I’m so mad, nor what I’ve come home for? No; you 
never do see nothing. That’s what makes you so 
even. It’s easy enough to be even when you don’t 
see nothing ; and I might ha’ known ’twant no use to 
expect you’d be the least grain of comfort to me in 
my time of trouble. You’re sorry you aint bright 
like I be? So bell” 


11 . 


” O what a tangled web we weave, 

When first we practice to deceive.” 

RUTH WOODFORD’S VERSION. 

I AM only a little girl, not quite thirteen years 
old. I am small of my age, and backward. But 
I always took to writing. And when you feel bad 
about anything you can not talk to anybody about, I 
think it is a good plan to go to the store, and buy a 
little blank book — not a dear one, but a cheap one-^ 
and put down in it some of your troubles. Perhaps 
children with mothers may not need such books. 
And to be sure, I have Kezia, and 1 used to tell her 
everything. But now I can not. 

I shall be ashamed to let any one see this book, 
it will be so full of bad grammar and bad spelling. 
If anybody ever does see it with good grammar and 
good spelling, it will be because one of my grand- 
children went and copied it out. I wouldn’t have 
any one suppose I am anything but a very ignorant, 
backward little girl. 

My mother died when I was three years old. I 

did not miss her much, because she never had been 

well enough to take care of me. I slept in a crib by 

the side of Kezia’s bed, and she washed and dressed 

( 19 ) 


20 


FEMAQUin. 


and fed me till I was old enough to take care of my- 
self. She did all the work in the house besides 
People said she was cross-grained, and that nobody 
but my father could get along with her. But he al- 
ways had a soft answer when she was contrary, and 
she used to tell me almost every day that he had the 
temper of an angel. 

If it hadn’t been for her I should have been very 
lonely, and indeed as it was I often used to wish I 
had a little sister. That was very wrong. I had no 
business to want things God did not think it best to 
give me. 

But my father was out, all day, looking after the 
farm. He is a justice of the Peace, besides. I do 
not know what that means, and perhaps I ought to 
have spelt it with a capital J. 

My brother Samuel used to follow him round 
wherever he went. And I followed after Kezia. I 
went out with her to milk the cows, and I watched 
her when she skimmed the milk, and stood by her 
while she churned. And betweenwhiles she used to 
tell me stories out of the Bible. When I got old 
enough to read it myself, I missed a good many things 
out of it that she said were there. The stories did 
not seem half as long nor half so wonderful as they 
did when I heard them as I followed her about, hear- 
ing a little here and a little there. 

One day — it was late in August, and the doors 
and windows were open — I was sitting on the steps 


RUTH WOODFORHS VERSION, 


21 


ot tne porch, listening to one of Kezia’s stories while 
she washed the breakfast dishes. 

‘You see, the Lord didn’t think it was healthy 
for Elijah to eat dinner,’ said she, ‘ so He only sent 
the ravens to feed him twice a day.* 

‘What did He send him?’ says I. I knew as 
well as she did, but I liked to hear it, just the same. 

‘ Well, He sent him a nice piece of beefsteak for 
his breakfast,’ said she, ‘ and a great, large piece of 
bread to eat with it.* 

‘ How large was the bread ? * 

‘ Well, about as large as that yellow bowl, I 
guess.* 

‘ O Kezia ! you said the other day it was only a 
slice ! * 

‘ Did I ? Well, may be I hadn’t read my Bible 
so careful as I ought to. What with one thing and 
another I don’t read it much nowadays, that’s a fact. 
But what’s Lawyer Snell a-coming here for, I should 
like to know ? * 

‘ Good-morning, Kezia, is that you ? * says Law- 
yer Snell, driving up close to the door. 

‘Yes, it’s me; who else should it be, for pity’s 
sake ? * 

‘ And how is my young friend, Ruth, this morn- 
ing?’ he went on. ‘ My wife’s cousin is at my house, 
as you know, and nothing will do but she must have 
the poor, motherless child to spend the day with her 
She’s so fond of children, my wife’s cousin is.’ 


22 


PjEMAQI/II?. 


* Ruth is motherless, as you say, but I don’t see 
that that’s your business, or anybody’s business but 
hers. I guess I can see through a millstone when it’s 
all holes,* 

There were two little pink spots on Kezia’s cheeks 
by this time, and she dashed about the porch and the 
kitchen till she was everywhere at once. 

Lawyer Snell only smiled. 

‘ I’ll come for her in half an hour,’ says he. ‘You 
6.x her up in her go-to-meeting clothes against I 
come for her.’ 

‘ I aint in the habit of having two masters,’ said 
Kezia. ‘When the Squire tells me to send her over 
to your house, it’ll be time enough to fix her up. 
Anyhow, her every-day clothes is as good as your 
wife wears on the Sabbath.’ 

‘ I see the Squire, and he said she could go,’ said 
Lawyer Snell. 

So Kezia dressed me and curled my hair round 
her fingers, and pulled it dreadfully, groaning all the 
time, and saying, ‘ O, your poor pa ! Your poor pa 1 ’ 

‘ What is the matter with pa ? ’ I asked her. 

‘A woman’s the matter with him, or will be. 
Don’t mind what I say.’ 

‘ If you’d just as lief cut off my hair. I’d just as 
lief have you,’ I said. ‘You do hurt me so ! ’ 

‘ La, if I haven’t pulled out a whole handful. 
Well, that’s better than busting, and I should ha* 
bust in forty thousand pieces if I hadn’t taken hold 


RUTH WOODFORHS VERSION, 


23 


of something, tooth and nail. To think how nice 
everything was going on, and nobody a-coming be- 
tween you and me, nor me and your pa ! ’ ‘ She took 
me in her arms, and sat down on the door-step and 
rocked back and forth as people do whoVe got the 
colic. 

* Ruth,* says she at last, * do you remember your 
own ma ? * 

I said I didn’t know. I thought she was all 
dressed in white, and there was two wings growing 
out of her shoulders, and she had a harp in her hand 
and was flying up to heaven. 

‘ Oh dear! oh dear! To think the child don’t re- 
member her own ma, and has mixed her all up with 
an angel, now! Well, mind what I say, Ruth. Your 
own ma was just as different from that woman you’re 
going to see as black’s different from white. But 
she’ll come round you ! She’ll come round you ! ’ 

I couldn’t understand what Kezia meant, but I 
liked very much to go out to spend the day, and I 
liked Mrs. Pickett, Mrs. Smith’s cousin, better than 
anybody I knew. For she was very kind to me all 
day long, and told me stories, and played have tea, 
and said I was such a dear little girl, and how sorry 
my own mother must have been to have to go away 
and leave me. And then she had a little girl, too* 
not so big as I was, but such a nice little girl, with 
black eyes and brown hair, and we played togethei 
like two twins, for Mrs. Pickett said so. 


24 


PEMAQUID, 


The next day, just after dinner, Mrs. Pickett 
came walking in with her little girl by the hand. 

My father was sitting in his chair, half asleep, for 
he always took a little nap after dinner. He 
started up, quite confused when he heard Mrs. 
Pickett’s voice. 

‘ I am afraid I have disturbed you. Squire Wood- 
ford,’ she said softly. * I never dreamed of your 
being at home, or I should not have ventured to in- 
trude. But your little daughter must be my apol- 
ogy. We were so charmed with her yesterday ! A 
most uncommon child ! * 

* She is like her mother,* said my father, much 
gratified. ‘Come here, Ruth.’ He took me in his 
arms and looked down at me in his loving way. 

‘ She tells me she does not go to school,’ said 
Mrs. Pickett. 

‘The Woodfords do not take to their books,’ he 
said. ‘ And there is no good school here.’ 

‘ Ah, you think schools a disadvantage. I agree 
with you,’ said Mrs. Pickett. ‘The freshness and 
innocence of childhood is only too apt to disappear 
in an artificial atmosphere. I thought of proposing — 
but 1 fear it is an intrusion — in fact I am in the habit 
of instructing my little Juliet myself, in preference 
to seeing her contaminated among other children. 
And as I expect to be here during the summer, it 
occurred to me, and my cousin, Mrs. Snell, approves 
of the plan — it occurred to me that it would be an 


RUTH WOODFORD'S VERSION. 


25 


adv.Xi Wge to Juliet, to have your little Ruth as a 
compattion in her studies.* 

‘You are very kind,* said my father, ‘very kind 
indeed. If the distance were not so great — * 

‘Oh, the distance is the merest trifle,* cried Mrs. 
Pickett. ‘ I walk twice as far every day. Of course 
my plan was to give the lessons here, not to propose 
that Ruth should come to me.* 

‘ It is really very kind,* said my father ; ‘ I hardly 
know what answer to make. But I can not consent 
to your coming here. I can arrange it so as to send 
Ruth to you.* 

‘ I do not feel quite free to act in Mr. Snell’s 
house as if it were my own,* she said, ‘ so, if you 
please, the lessons shall be here.* 

So she came every day, and was so sweet, and 
seemed to love me so, that I loved her dearly. I 
talked about her to my father and Kezia, and Kezia 
said she’d weaned my heart from her, but that I 
should come to my senses before I was a month 
older. 

Mrs. Pickett was very sad a great deal of 
the time, and said it was a dreadful thing not to 
have any home, and to have to live on strangers. 
She always came just as father was rousing up from 
his nap, and she often brought a Bible with her, and 
asked him his opinion of some of the texts. Noth- 
ing pleases father like studying up the Bible, and 

they would get so taken up with commentaries and 
2 


26 


FEMAQUID. 


such books, that us girls got no lesson at all, and 
went out and played in the garden or dow n in the 
orchard. I never had been so happy in my life, and 
never saw father brighten up so. 

MRS. PICKETT PROCEEDS. 

Cousin Snell will have a sweet season of mourn- 
ing over her sins next fast-day. She burst into my 
room this morning in a perfect fury, armed with an 
empty raisin-box. 

^ There,’ she cried, ‘ do you see that box? ’ 

I replied that I was not blind. 

*■ Well, that girl of your’n has ate up all my raisins 
that I was saving for mince pies, and flesh and blood 
can’t stand it no longer. Bolts and bars aint noth- 
ing to her. I can’t put my cake or pies or sweet- 
meats anywhere, but what she’ll find ’em. And if 
you don’t stop it. I’ll put pizen into everything. As 
dear as everything is now, to eat a whole box of 
raisins ! ’ 

‘ I had no idea you had so much fire in you,* I 
said, much amused. 

Whereupon she began to cry. 

‘You have such a faculty of leading me into 
temptation,’ she said, covering her face with her 
apron. ‘ Since you came here. I’ve got to be an 
awful backslider, and don’t enjoy religion at all.* 

‘ I should not think you were in a very holy state 
when you talked, just now, of murdering my pool 


AfRS PICKETT PROCEEDS. 


27 


little girl for nibbling at sweet things. All children 
do that.* 

‘ It’s no such thing. There aint a thief among 
all the children in Pemaquid. Well, I’ll have a new 
lock put on every door in the house, and keep the 
key in my pocket. And, for my part, I wish you’d 
hunt up a home for yourself somewhere else. You’ve 
lived on us till we’re sick and tired of you. Me and 
pa is both agreed that the sooner you go the better. 
Why, you two has as good as took the bread out of 
our children’s mouths.’ 

Now as the children are all married and do not 
live at home, this statement did not overwhelm me. 

‘ I expected something of this sort,’ I replied, 
and was on the point of suggesting that we should 
remain here as boarders.’ 

‘ What’ll you pay ? ’ she cried. 

‘ I am not prepared, at present, to state the pre- 
cise sum,’ I returned. 

‘ I should be proper glad to make a little money,’ 
she said. ‘ We’re gettin’ old, and ought to lay by 
something against a rainy day.’ Her old eyes fairly 
glistened. 

‘ It is hard upon mej being a widow, to have to 
pay my own relatives for such food as I have had 
since we came here,’ I said, at last beginning to lose 
my tern] <er. After all the flatteries I had bestowed 
on this woman, it was hard to find they had not 
touched her heart. 


28 


PEMAQUID. 


* Such vittles, did you say?’ she burst forth 
Well, it’s the first time I’ve heerd a word against 
my vittles. You and your young one have been liv- 
in’ on the bread of charity all summer, and now you 
call it “ such vittles ! ” 

‘I begin to realize now why you Pemaquiders 
have so many fasts; that is, if there are many such 
termagants among you as I see before me,’ I remark- 
ed quietly, having quite recovered my self-control. 
Whereupon the old fossil began to cry again. 

‘Yes,’ she said, in a subdued tone, ‘I’ve been 
showing an unchristian spirit not becoming to a 
member of the Church. But you are the aggrava- 
tingest — old — the — aggravatingest old — well, I can’t 
think of no name but she-devil. You’d make the 
angel Gabriel swear, Kezia Millet says, with your ways 
like a cat, and your mean spirit, a-coming and living 
on us like a blood-sucker, Kezia says, and a-prowlin 
round the Squire, and palavering him out of his wits ! 

‘Now, Cousin Snell,’ I sweetly began, ‘it is vul- 
j^ar to quarrel, and commonplace. A^jyhody can de 
it. But there are few who can keep the peace when 
irritated. Now let us become friends again, and per- 
haps we can be of mutual service to each other.’ I 
held out my soft, white hand, into which she reluc- 
tantly put her hard, bony, grimy one. ‘ Can you keep 
a secret ? ’ I asked, solemnly. 

‘Yes,* with eager curiosity. 

Will you promise never to betray me if I confide 









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MES. PICKETT PROCEEDS. 


29 


in you, remembering how you’ll feel next fast-day 
if you break your word ? ’ 

‘ I hope I may die if I break it,’ was her reply. 

‘Very well; I expect in time to become Mrs 
Woodford.’ 

‘ So Kezia says.’ 

‘ I am not particularly fond of hearing quotations 
from Kezia,’ I returned. 

‘ If there’s any chance of your marrying the 
Squire, you’d be a fool to make an enemy out of 
Kezia, for there aint her equal anywhere. She can 
do as much work as ten common women, and never 
seem to be doing nothing. I never see nobody like 
her. She can lift a barrel of flour as easy as you 
could your work-bag. And there aint nothing she 
won’t do for them she cottons to. But, my ! I 
wouldn’t have her for an enemy.’ 

‘ Nor would I. I shall do everything to conciliate 
her. See, now, how quickly I have made you forget 
my ebullition of anger ! ’ 

‘ I haint forgot it. And I haint forgot that 
you’ve turned up your nose at my vittles, and me as 
good a housekeeper as any one in Pemaquid.’ 

‘ 1 said nothing about your housekeeping. I re- 
ferred to the scarcity of good, nourishing food, and 
the superabundance of pies and the like. It was 
foolish in me to make any allusion to the food, for 
I'm sure it is very nicely cooked, and your bread and 
butter are perfect.’ 


30 


PEMAQUID. 


* Well, now you talk reasonable,* she said, recov- 
ering her good humor. ‘ And do you really think you 
shall manage to catch the Squire ? ’ 

‘Yes, I do, if you don’t stand in my light by 
putting it into Kezia’s head that such is my plan. 
And when you stand in my light you stand in your 
own. Don’t you see what an advantage it would be to 
you to have a cousin with plenty of money right across 
the street ? Don’t you see that if I am to pay you for 
my board I must marry a man who has a plenty for 
me to do it with ? ’ 

‘ Haven’t you got any money at all ?* 

‘Yes, I have a trifle, but how far would that go 
toward repaying you for all you have done for me ? ’ 
‘ Do you mean that you expect to pay me for the 
whole time you’ve been here ? ? ? * 

‘ Certainly.* 

‘ Why, me and pa, we thought you was jest mak- 
ing a convenience of us.* 

It is not strange the simple creatures thought so. 
But I am changing my tactics, now that there is war 
in the camp. 

‘The Squire is easy to come round,* she said, 
musingly, ‘but Kezia aint. She’s dead set ag’inst 
you.* 

‘ Of course. Don*t you see that she is aspiring 
to become Mrs. Woodford herself?* 

‘Why, no, I never thought of such a thing 
That would account for her hating you so.’ 


MRS. PICKETT PROCEEDS, 


31 


* She has no other reason for hating me. I never 
did her any harm, and never intend to. And don’t 
you think it would be disgraceful for a man of Squire 
Woodford’s position to marry his servant ?! 

‘ Do you call Kezia Millet a servant ? ’ she 
shrieked. ‘ Why, she’s as respectable in her way as 
you are in your’n. But she aint exactly a lady, and 
you air.” 

Now I have no more idea that Kezia Millet is 
setting her cap for the Squire than she is setting it 
for me. There’s nothing bold about the young 


woman. 


III. 


** The mind is its own place, and in itself. 

Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.** 

LAWYER SNELL’S VERSION. 

1 SAW through this Mrs. Pickett in a minute. But 
wife did not. She wound wife round her finger. 
And now we’ve been talking it over together, this 
scheme of hers to marry the Squire, and I don’t see as 
it’s any business of ours to interfere. He’s thirty-eight 
years old, and ought to know his own' mind. Still, if he 
comes to me, and asks me, point-blank, if I think she’d 
bring up his children in the fear of the Lord, and make 
a happy home for him, I couldn’t in conscience say yes. 
But he won’t come. He’ll manage the whole thing 
himself, or rather this woman will manage it for him. 
I’m sorry for the Squire. 

And if I could afford it I would give him a warn- 
ing. But I can’t afford it. Here we have had these 
two upon us all summer, eating and drinking and 
sleeping, and that bad child devouring everything 
wife sets most store by. We ought to be paid hand- 
somely for their board, for the damage done to car- 
pets, and for all the child has pilfered. But it goes 
against my conscience to think of that innocent young 
female child Ruth W >odford’s falling into the hand3 


MES PICKETT PROCEEDS, 


33 


of this designing woman, and living under the same 
roof with Juliet Pickett. What ought I to do? If 
it wasn’t for the money — 

What an ungodly thing ; to do evil to get a home, 
and perhaps ruin that home ! Mrs. Pickett has a very 
bad heart. And her selfishness runs into cruelty. It 
is cruel to enter a peaceful home merely for her own 
purposes. I despise selfishness, and if I could afford 
it I would unmask her to the Squire. But we must 
be paid, and I see no other way for it. We are getting 
oid, and need a great many little comforts young peo- 
ple can do without. There’s the sill of the barn-door 
needs renewing, and we need a chaise to take us to 
meeting. Still, if the Squire asks me, I think I ought 
to tell him. And suppose he doesn’t, wouldn’t he 
rather pay me a hundred dollars down than have that 
tricksy woman for his wife ? Of course he would ! It 
aint so bad an idea, Joshua Snell! You might make 
the most money that way, and pacify your conscience 
into the bargain. I’ll go and see what wife says. 

MRS. PICKETT PROCEEDS. 

The Squire has, at last, as Deborah Snell says, 
‘give in.’ I found my game had to run down. The 
number of prayer-meetings and fasts I have attended 
in my pursuit has been appalling. I have met him 
‘accidentally’ at least fifty times. I have got caught 
in the rain at his house about as many more. I have 
his fusty, musty books again and again. I 


84 


FEMAQUID. 


have flattered Ruth, and put up with Samuel. And 
I can have a home of my own at any moment I choose. 
The Squire has fasted and prayed over his side of the 
question — poor, superstitious prig that he is — and 
thinks I am sent him from the Lord to bring up his 
children. 

But there is still an obstacle in the way. Old 
Grigs may be living. I do not believe he is ; but still, 
if he is, I should get myself into a most dangerous 
plight by marrying another man. It is true that ces- 
sation of persecution has awakened the hope that old 
Grigs is dead ; but I do not know it. If I had the 
means I would go and find out the truth, for I can 
not risk writing. Why didn’t I die before I was born 
into this world of care and trouble ? I am distracted 
with the part I have to play ; but with a respectable 
home of my own I could be happy. Old Grigs is 
seventy years old to-day, if he is alive. But I do not 
believe he is. I am not wicked enough to marry 
another man when I have a husband living; that 
would be a greater and more desperate crime than I 
have yet been guilty of. But I am weary of the 
struggle to keep up ; I long, I long for rest. If I had 
any one to consult ! But I have no one. I haven't 
a friend in the world except the Squire. 

LAWYER SNELL AGAIN. 

That female, driven to desperation, has made a 
confidant of me. She is a cheat, as I have said all 


MRS. STRONG REFLECTS. 


35 


along. Her name is not Pickett. She married an old 
man named Grigs. He is as rich as a Jew. He turned 
her out of his house in a fit of jealousy, and has 
hunted her from place to place. If she knew he was 
dead she would marry the Squire. But I tell her she 
need not do that for a support, because the law en- 
titles her to a portion of Grigs’ estate. It is worth 
my while to go and investigate. What a relief it will 
be if Mrs. Pickett — Grigs, I mean — is left so well off 
that she can afford to pay us handsomely for her 
board, as I then could afford, in my turn, to save the 
Squire from marrying a woman whose antecedents 
are doubtful, to say the least of it, and whose prin- 
ciples are far from being sound. I start on my jour- 
ney to-morrow, having hired money for the purpose, 
and trusting to Providence for repayment. 

REV. MRS. STRONG REFLECTS. 

I feel very uneasy about Squire Woodford. This 
widow, that none of us know anything about, is be- 
sieging him day and night. He says she would make 
such a good mother to his children if he can persuade 
her to accept that position. Persuade her, indeed! 
As if she has thought of anything else since she came 
here ! And to think of her taking the place of Love 
Woodford, my precious, ever-to-be-lamented friend ! 
Oh, how can men make such blunders, especially such 
men as the Squire, who consults the Lord about eveiy- 
thing, just as little innocent children talk to their 


36 


PEMAQUin. 


mothers ! She can’t spoil our dear Ruth ; the child’s 
principles are past uprooting ; but she can make hei 
miserable. She will drive Samuel out of the house ; 
he hates a hypocrite beyond anything. And I can’t 
make my husband see all this. He says the Squire 
will be a lucky man if he gets such a cultivated 
woman to educate his children. As to Kezia, poor 
thing, how will she like to give up the reins she has 
held so long? And she had everything just as Love 
did, and made the Squire so comfortable that I’m sure 
he would never have thought of marrying again if 
this artful woman hadn’t put it into his head. To be 
sure she is a beauty ; but he wouldn’t be caught by 
that. 

MRS. PICKETT PROCEEDS. 

This afternoon I received a visit from the Rev. Mrs, 
Strong, who has appeared in quite a new character. 

‘Mrs. Pickett,’ she began, ‘you have not been 
long enough in Pemaquid to get at its heart. Now I 
was born and brought up here, and know every man, 
woman, and c’nild in the village. And Love Wood- 
ford, the Squire’s wife, was one of those saintly char- 
acters you read about in books, but don’t meet very 
often out of them. She lived, and moved, and had 
her being in the Lord Jes is Christ. And the Squire, 
as pure and good a man as ever lived, caught her 
spirit while she lived, and her mantle when she died. 
But he has his weak sides, and is easily taken in, or 
to put it more truly, he is so guileless that he can’t 


MRS. PICKETT PROCEEDS. 


37 


believe in guile in others. We all know — for Pema- 
quid is like one family, as it were — that you can 
marry him to-morrow if you choose. But ask your 
own conscience, are you the woman to lead Love 
Woodford’s children heavenward?. Are you the 
woman to join the Squire in his fireside piety, his 
benevolent deeds among the poor and afflicted, and 
to be loved and admired by us all as he is loved and 
admired ? Oh, Mrs. Pickett, I speak to you as with 
Love Woodford’s voice ; spare her husband ; spare 
her children ; let that home be the Christian home it 
always has been.’ 

Never was I so shaken by mingled emotions of 
indignation, admiration, and shame. To think that 
this little woman, in her shabby clothes, had read me 
through and through ! To think how the fear of 
God had robbed her of all fear of man ! To think 
of the depth of earnestness in that small frame ! 

I longed to pour out upon her all the vials of my 
wrath ; but policy forbade it, and I maintained an 
exasperating silence which left her in a most awk- 
ward position. 

‘ Have you nothing to say to me?’ she at last asked. 

‘ Impertinent interference deserves no answer,’ I 
replied. 

She colored painfully. 

‘ Could I have been impertinent when I came to 
you right from my knees before God ? ’ she asked, in 
such a tone of heartfelt grief that mine smote me 


38 


FEAfAQUIJD. 


* Then I ask your pardon/ she added, and went 
meekly and sorrowfully away. I watched her as she 
passed down the street, and said : 

‘ Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian ^ ^ 

RUTH PROCEEDS. 

I love Mrs. Pickett more and more, and I am 
very sorry for her, too, she seems so unhappy. There 
isn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do for her. 
She says it is so hard not to have any home or any 
money, so I pray to God to give them to her, and 
He will. 

J ust as I had got so far, Mrs. Pickett came for my 
lessons. She seemed sadder than usual, and told 
my father that Lawyer Snell had been trying to re- 
cover some property that belonged to her late hus- 
band, but that it was so tied up there was no getting 
at it. My father’s tender heart was touched by her 
grief, and he told us little girls to run away and play. 
By and by he called us back, and said, ‘ Ruth, my 
child, how would you like to have our friend, Mrs. 
Pickett, come and live with us ? ’ 

‘ Oh, very much, very much indeed, father ; and 
poor little Juliet, too.’ 

* You are all too kind to the widow and the 
orphan,’ said Mrs. Pickett ; and there were no more 
lessons that day. 

Then I went into the kitchen and told Kezia. 

She turned round and looked at me, and then 


RUTH PROCEEDS. 


39 


threw a pan of biscuits she had just taken from the 
oven into the water-pail. 

' Kezia, are you crazy?’ I said. * You’ve thrown 
av/ay the biscuits ! ’ 

‘ It aint me that’s crazy,’ she said ; ‘ it’s somebody 
else. And there’s more than biscuits throwed away. 
And so you’ve forgot your own ma, and are tickled 
to death to think you’re a-going to have a new one ! 
Well, children will be children, and widders will be 
widders ; and that’s all I’ve got to say about it.’ 

‘ A new ma ! ’ I cried out. *• O Kezia, you don’t 
know anything about it. She said she hadn’t no 
home and no money, and the Snells were tired of 
her ; and I pitied her, and father pitied her, and ask.d 
her to come here to live ; but he didn’t say nothing 
about a new ma ! ’ • 

Then Kezia began to sing, and this is what she 
said, making it up as she went along — perhaps it is 
silly to write it down ; but I don’t know anybody 
else who sings as often as she does. She sings 
when she feels cross, and when she’s unhappy, and 
when she’s happy; she sings on thanksgiving days, 
and sometimes, though not on purpose, even on fast 
days : 

Well. Kezia, 

Here's the Squire 

Gone and set his house a-fire ! 

Blessed angels dv away. 

Evil creeturs cor'e to stay ; 

We must watcij and fast and pray I 


40 


PEMAQUID. 


At least, I suppose she calls it singing; but she 
gets her voice up to E sharp, Lawyer Snells says, and 
he ought to know, for he pitches the tunes at confer- 
ence meeting. When she got through she liked her 
rhymes so much that she went over them three or 
four times. I think myself they are often as good as 
Mother Goose. 

When she stopped, at last, she said : 

Now run away, you little goose, run away, 
before I go clear distracted and demented. You 
asked her, did you ? It was you that put your poor 
pa up to courting her, was it ? Well, I am beat ! ' 
By this time her pink spots were like two live coals, 
and she began to cry. I cried too, because I always 
cried when other folks did ; but I did not know what 
I had done that was naughty. Samuel came in while 
we were crying, and wanted to know what was the 
matter. 

“ ‘ We’re crying because we aint got nothing to 
wear to the wedding,’ said Kezia, in a glum voice. 

*■ What w'edding ? ’ 

‘Your pa’s and your new ma’s.’ 

‘You needn’t tell me my father’s going to have 
that old hypocrite,’ cried Sam. ‘ I know better. I 
guess he’s got i little mite of common sense.’ 

‘ She’s going to have /izm, at any rate,’ said Kezia, 
‘and she won’t let the grass grow under her feet till 
it’s done. La! her wedding dress is all made. I’ll 
warrant/ 


RUTH PROCEEDS, 


41 


Samuel made a horrible face, and went out and 
began to split wood. 

‘ I sha’n’t want any supper,' said he. 

The next day Lawyer Snell came driving down 
as gay as could be, and he and my father were shut 
up together two or three hours. After he had gone 
my father walked up and down, and I heard him sigh 
a good many times. 

‘ I hope I’ve done right,’ he kept saying to him- 
self. ^ I hope I have chosen a good mother for my 
children.’ But he seemed uneasy, and as near to 
being worried as he could be. 

It wasn’t long before there was a wedding, sure 
enough, and Mrs. Pickett came home to our house to 
live, and Juliet came too. 

‘ I declare,’ said Kezia, * if your new ma aint a 
rummaging amongst all your own ma’s things ! She’s 
clearing out all the bureau drawers, and all the 
closets, and a-putting her finery in. It’s enough to 
make your own ma rise from her grave ! And that 
young one has got your ma’s work-basket a-dragging 
it all over the house ! Oh, dear! Oh, dear me ! 

To-day my new mother asked me if I knew what 
father shut himself up three times a day for, and it 
it was to count money. I said I knew what it was 
for, but did not like to tell. Then she said she 
should punish me severely if I did not tell. I waited 
as long as I dared, and then I said, very low : 

He is praying.’ 


42 PEMAQUID, 

* Praying ! What for ? Is anything worrying 
him?* 

It isn’t worry that makes him pray,’ I said. *• He 
loves to pray. All good people do. Don’t you ? ’ 
That was a very rude question, she said. 

A little while afterward we were all sitting to- 
gether, and Juliet got angry with me and slapped 
me in the face. My father saw her. He never hap- 
pened to see her do that before. The next time I 
was alone with him he said : 

‘ My little daughter, are you very unhappy ? ’ 

I was not at all unhappy just at that minute; 
how could I be when he was putting his arms round 
me, and looking so kind ? And if I had complained 
about anything it would have troubled him, and he 
had trouble enough without me. 

‘ I want to ask my little girl a few questions,’ he 
went on. ‘Are you ever tempted to strike Juliet 
when she strikes you ? ’ 

‘ Oh no, father.’ 

‘ When she stole the pocket-piece that your own 
mother left you, had you any vindictive feelings ? ’ 

I was not sure I knew what vindictive meant. 
If it meant that I wanted her to be whipped, then I 
hadn’t. It is bad enough to be whipped myself, es- 
pecially when I did not know what it was for. But 
I did not tell father that. It might be a tempta- 
tion to him to get angry with my new mother. 

‘You have been brought up to fear God, Does 


RUTH PROCEEDS. 


43 


hearing other people make a jest of Divine things 
weaken that fear in the very least ? ’ 

*■ No, father, not in the very least. It never will.’ 

‘ Hush ! don’t say that. We are very weak creat- 
ures, and children are greatly under the influence of 
their elders. Say that you will pray, every day of 
your life, to have Almighty God in constant rever- 
ence, as becomes His holy name.’ 

I don’t think I can ever forget how he looked at 
me, as if he would look me through. 

The very next day we children were all in the 
kitchen together, and Juliet got angry with me and 
pulled my hair, till the tears rolled down my cheeks. 
It wasn’t crying, it was only tears rolling down. 
Then Kezia flew at Juliet like a tiger, only I never 
saw a tiger, and boxed her ears soundly. Juliet set 
up a dreadful scream, and her mother came hurrying 
out to see what the matter was. She never said a 
word, but walked to the closet, took out a mince 
pie, and gave it to Juliet. Now there’s nothing puts 
Kezia out like seeing children <at between meals, 
and my new mother knew it. And Kezia knew that 
if Juliet ate a whole mince pie she would have a 
sick spell in the night, and keep everybody awake. 
And sure enough, she was sick, for as I sleep with 
her I know all about it ; and Kezia, poor thing, had 
to get up and heat water, and hunt for peppermint ; 
and father got up, too, and dressed himself, for he 
could not sleep in such an uproar. 


IV. 


** LoDk on this picture, and on this.** 

MRS. WOODFORD PROCEEDS. 

T last I have a hearth and a home of my own 



^ but at what a price I Joshua Snell learned that 
my cruel husband was dead ; but he also learned, as 
I ought to have foreseen he would, the side of my 
story told by my enemies. He has come to hold 
falsehood I can not confront over my head. As to 
the estate of old Grigs, he had blundered a large 
part of it away, and Snell advises me not to put in a 
claim for any part of it, on the ground that I am 
only safe while concealed. I seem fated to have no 
rest in this world. Any day the Snells may let loose 
against me these vile rumors. Deborah, with her 
husband’s help, has made me out a large bill for 
board, to which she has added the price of various 
articles broken by Juliet in her tantrums. Now 
money is the last thing to be had. The people here 
make ^ trades,’ as they call it, with the productions 
of their farms ; but Deborah declines to trade with 
me, and insists on being paid forthwith. I shall re- 
construct affairs in the kitchen, putting them on a 
more economical foundation, and every cent the 


( 44 ) 


KEZIA PROCEEDS 


45 


Squire gives me for household expenses shall go to 
my rapacious relative (who, as , I knew of course, all 
along, is next to no relation). Then Lawyer Snell 
has presented a fearful bill for traveling expenses in 
the journey he made on my behalf ; so that I am 
eaten up with care. Then to keep the peace with 
that termagant, Kezia, taxes my wits to the last de- 
gree. As for Juliet, she and Samuel keep up an 
incessant feud, while poor little weak-spirited Ruth 
is all the time trying to keep the peace. Then the 
Squire’s ways are a great mystery. Three times a 
day he locks himself into a little room off the sitting- 
room, and what he is doing there does not transpire. 
I found a note in one of his pockets to-day which is 
my nest-egg, and will go toward paying those irk- 
some debts. Deborah comes over regularly every 
day to harass me about them. 

* If you was a good, straightforward woman,’ she 
Bays, * you’d just tell the Squire how things is. He’s 
one of the reasonablest men I ever see.’ 

I tell her I wouldn’t have him know about it on 
any account. It is always best to manage, 

KEZIA PROCEEDS. 

“ Well, now. Mis’ Snell, things is going on awful to 
our house; wuss than I expected. I take it very 
hard that you never told me what a bad child that 
Juliet Pickett is. 

*'‘Her name aint Pickett, it’s Grigs,’ says Mis* 


46 


PEMAQUin. 


Snell * Her ma had been doing something out of the 
way, I don’t know what, and so she changed her 
name to Pickett. It don’t look well when people 
change their names,’ ses she. 

“ ‘ Indeed it don’t,’ ses I. ‘ But I can’t stand 
things much longer, and I think the Squire is gettin* 
his eyes open. The way that girl tyrannizes over our 
poor little Ruth makes my blood run cold. Then 
Samuel interferes, and Juliet runs screaming to her 
mother, who always takes her part. And then the 
way all my good things go off on the sly! Not that 
we live now as we used to live. It’s scrimp here and 
scrimp there, and save this and save that. If you’ll 
believe me, the day before Thanksgivin’ I was a 
gittin' ready for it, and she comes out, and ses she, 
‘Why, Kezia, what’s all this?’ 

“ ‘ Gittin’ ready for Thanksgivin’,’ ses I. 

“ ‘Are you expecting all Pemaquid to dinner?’ ses 
she. ‘ I should think you were.’ 

“ ‘ Nobody’s coming but Mr. and Mrs. Strong and 
their baby. We always have our minister to Thanks- 
givin’,’ ses I. 

“ ‘ And is all this wicked waste for him ? ’ 

‘“’Taint waste. All for him? No, indeed. Them 
six turkeys is to go to six poor widders ; them 
chickens is to go to the poor-house, along of lots ot 
pies, puddln’s, and apples ; that ere chicken-pie is foi 
old Mis’ Harris ; them mince-pies is to go to our min- 
ister, along of a turkey and some sassenges ; that — 


KEZIA PROCEEDS. 


47 


“ ‘ You have the minister here to dinner, and send 
him a dinner besides? ’ ses she. 

‘ Of course we do,’ ses I. * La, the Squire’s git- 
tin’ out the sleigh now, and I must pack it right 
away,’ ses I, ‘for he makes great account of carrying 
things round to the poor himself.’ She looked as if 
she should drop. 

“ ‘ I never heard of ’ ach extravagance,’ ses she. ‘ I 
shall put up with it this once, but never again. I 
forbid your impoverishing the family in this way.’ 

“ ‘ You might just as well try to stop the sun from 
risin’, as to stop the Squire from giving to the poor,’ 
ses I. 

“ ‘ Well, he don’t give money, at any rate,’ ses she, 
a-chuckling. 

“ ‘ Don’t give money ? Then what does our minis- 
ter live on, I should like to know ? And what does 
them six widders buy their tea with ? ’ 

“ By this time she looked so miserable I thought I 
wouldn’t tell her what he’d put into the contribution- 
box Thanksgivin’ Day. 

“ She’s no more feelin’ for the poor than them pair 
of andirons ; no, not so much, for they’ll hold wood 
to warm the poor creatures by, and she’d pull it off 
with her own hands if she could. All the feelin’s she 
has is for that tyke of hers ; and what does she get 
by that? Why, the girl makes fun of her to het 
face.” 


18 


PEMAQUID, 


MRS. WOODFORD PROCEEDS. 

The Squire must make more money because his 
wife must have money. And I have made a great 
discovery. He owns immense water-power, which *s 
now running to waste. I represent that a factory of 
some sort ought to be built. He rubs his hands to- 
gether, and says he can’t afford it. Now I am going 
around to stir up other men to join in the enterprise. 
I can persuade men to commit murder if I choose. 

I need something to distract my mind, for Juliet 
grows more headstrong every day. I asked Mr. 
Woodford if he could afford it, and was willing to 
send her away to school. I am capable of instruct- 
ing her, but she does not believe it, and I have no 
power over her or influence with her. 

ruth’s journal continued. 

I was in hopes my new mother would teach me 
after she came here, but she has not time. She s 
busy writing in a large blank book. Perhaps she has 
troubles to tell to it just as I do to my little one. 
Kezia says she acts as if she expected a wild Indian 
to spring out upon her from somewhere every minu e. 
She says a good many other things it would be naughty 
in me to write down. 

She is very unhappy, Kezia is. She says she isn’t 
li/ing consistent, and can’t, with her temptations. 
Father says she has got a great, big, warm, kind 


RUTWS JOURNAL CONTINUED. 49 


heart, and we must overlook her failings. He says 
his motto is, and always has been, ‘ Give and forgive.’ 
I mean to take it for mine. 

So I shall give Juliet any of my things she wants 
I do not think she will want my Bible or my “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress,” so I can keep them. And when she wants 
the seat next to the fire I shall let her have it. And 
I shall forgive my new mother everything^ and never 
tell anybody as long as I live what she has done to 
me.. And I shall pray day and night about it, say- 
ing, O God, make me give ! Make me /(?rgive ! 
Make me give ! Make me forgive ! ’ 

Such a wonderful Providence as I have had since 
I wrote that ! I must write it all down. 

One cold day in March, Kezia went up into the 
garret and got a little hair-trunk that had been up 
there, full of herbs, ever since I was born, I guess. 
She had it in the kitchen, dusting it ; and when she 
had spread a clean towel over the bottom of it, she 
says to me : 

*• You bring anything down you want to take with 
you, except your clothes. I'll see to theml 

* Anything to take where ? ’ I said. 

* Why, aint your pa told you ? ’ 

* No, indeed.’ 

* I expect he couldn’t for the lump in his throat 
Much as ever he could do to tell me. Well, you’re 
going where there aint any new ma a-slouching round, 


50 


PEMAQUID. 


nor no Juliets to slap you in the face. You’re going 
to your pa’s ma, and she’ll be good to you, and you’ll 
be good to her. Only you won’t have your poor old 
cross Kezia, and she won’t have you ! And here’s 
eight little mites of pies for you, just as if it was 
Thanksgivin’ Day. You eat the cranberry tart for 
your dinner on your way to Kittery P’int, and the ap- 
ple tart for your supper, for you won’t get there till 
night. You see, there aint anybody where you’re 
goin’ that’ll realize you’re a little girl and fond of lit- 
tle pies.’ 

I never saw any tarts like Kezia’s. She covered 
them with bunches of grapes, made of pie-crust, cut 
out with a key, and made grape-leaves and little ten- 
drils too. But I did not care anything about them, 
I was so glad I was going away. I hadn’t made any 
fuss about anything my new mother did or anything 
Juliet did; but now I ran up-stairs and locked my 
door and cried. Oh, how I cried ! And when I felt 
better, and was going down again, I met my father ; 
and he put me back into my room, and locked the 
door again, and took me in his arms, and his great 
breast went up and down as if something inside of 
it was going to burst ; and then I cried harder than 
ever. At last we got quiet ; and when father went 
to open the door, there was Jtiliet’s great black eye 
at the key-hole. 

I had never seen grandma. About the time I 
was born she had a fall, and broke her hip and was 


RUTH^S JOURNAL CONTINUED. 


51 


hurt in her spine ; and though my father went to see 
her twice a year, he never took me, though he often 
took Samuel. He told me on the journey that it 
wasn’t good for a little girl like me to see an old per- 
son suffer as she did, but that lately her pain was 
greatly relieved. 

When we went in he said to her : 

* Mother, I’ve brought you my ewe-lamb to keep ; * 
and she put her arms out and I went right in, for I 
don’t think anybody could help it who saw that sweet, 
shining old face. It was night and I was tired, and 
Rachel, grandma’s girl, helped me to get to bed ; and 
when I got in I found she’d warmed it with a warm- 
ing-pan ! In the morning they told me my father 
could not stand it to say good-bye, and had been gone 
two hours. 

After breakfast, that I had right by grandma’s 
bed, she made me read a chapter in the Bible, and 
then she had family prayers with me and Rachel. 
Then I helped Rachel about the house, and by eight 
o’clock all the work was done ; and grandma made 
me bring all my clothes, and she looked them over 
and found some of them needed mending, and told me 
where to get patches and how to sew them on. Then 
she gave me a sheet to patch, but I couldn’t hold it 
in my little hands, and so she showed me how to sew 
it on, over and over, and then crease the seam down 
with my thumb. I never heard of such a handy way 
to put on a large patch. 


52 


FEMAQUID. 


When the clock struck twelve Rachel brought in 
her dinner on a little tray. 

‘Here’s your dinner, grandma,’ says she; ‘and 
Ruth can eat with you if she wants to.’ 

I said I did ; and we two had our dinner together. 
Grandma shut her eyes and folded her hands and 
asked a blessing first. 

After dinner she took a little nap, and when she 
woke up she told me to bring all my lesson books and 
let her hear my lessons. 

I recited to her in geography and spelling, and 
then she told me to sit down and write a copy. Then 
she made me read one chapter in “ The Saint’s Ever- 
lasting Rest ” and one chapter in “ Owen on Spiritual- 
Mindedness.” 

‘You don’t understand what you read, poor 
child,’ says she. ‘ But never mind. You will by 
and by. Now come close up to me, and let us 
have a good talk. What sort of a little girl are 
you, Ruth ? ’ 

‘ O grandma. I’m just as naughty as I can be ! ’ 

‘ I hope not,’ says she. ‘ Come tell grandma 
all about it. Grandma won’t be hard with you 
child.’ 

‘Well, grandma, it says in the Bible if anybody 
smites you on one cheek you must turn the other 
cheek to her. That means I should let Juliet slap 
me as much as she’s a mind.’ 

* Does it ? ’ sa) s grandma. 


RUTH^S JOURNAL CONILNUED. 63 


‘Why, yes, grandma. And I never do. I run 
away and hide.’ 

‘ Well, what else ? ’ 

‘ And cold nights I don’t like to get into bed first 
to warm a place for her.’ 

‘ And so you never do ? ’ 

‘ O yes, I always do. But I don’t like to. If I 
was good I should like to, you know.’ 

‘ Is there anything else ? ’ 

‘Yes. I like father a great deal better than 
I like mother ! ’ 

‘That will do,’ says grandma. ‘You and I are 
going to try now to see how good we can be. You 
shall help me and I will help you.’ 

‘ Why, grandma ! how can I help you ? And 
aint you just as good as can be now? Father said 
so. Father said — ’ 

‘Never mind what he said. We are both going 
to try to be as good as we can be. We are going to 
pray together, and to read the Bible together, and 
grow good together.’ 

I liked that. I like grandma very much. And I 
guess it will be pretty easy to be good here. As soon 
as I get very good indeed I mean to ask grandma to 
let me join the Church. I asked mother once, and she 
laughed and said she guessed I was well enough as I 
was. She said it wasn’t no use to join the Church. 


I haven’t written in this book since my birthday 


54 


PEMAQUID. 


I don’t like to write very well; but I mean to write 
New Year’s Days and Thanksgivings. 

It is six months since I came here, and I am thir- 
teen and a half now. I like to stay here. Grandma 
is just as nice as can be. She says she is afraid it’s 
lonesome for me sitting all day with an old woman 
like her. But I aint lonesome at all. I am learning 
to sew beautifully. And I say lessons every day. 
Grandma says she don’t know much, but what she 
does know she’ll teach me. I go to meeting every 
Sunday morning, and in the afternoon Rachel goes 
and I stay with grandma. Before I came, grandma 
used to stay all alone in the house while Rachel was 
gone. Father said it was not safe. For if the house 
should get on fire, poor grandma would be burnt up. 

Now I have no one to plague me, I should think 
I might be perfectly good. But I aint. I do not 
dare to ask grandma to let me join the Church, be- 
cause I know she would say I must wait till I was 
better. I pray a great deal about it, and maybe God 
will hear me some time. 

There was an old lady here yesterday to see 
grandma. They talked together about loving Christ. 
They seemed to love Him so much ! And then they 
prayed together. Grandma often has dear old ladies 
come and pray with her. While they were praying I 
thought I felt just as they felt. I thought I truly 
loved God. But when the old lady was going away, 
she said to grandma : 


RUTH^S JOURNAL CONTINUED. 


55 


‘ What a comfort this child must be to you ! How 
attentive and gentle she is ! * 

And grandma said, ‘ Yes.’ 

Then Satan he up and whispered : 

‘ Do you hear that? They both praise you, and 
such old ladies ought to know.’ 

So I suppose it can’t be that I really love God. 
If I did Satan would not dare to say such things to 
me. 

I am fourteen to-day. Ever so old that is. Since 
my last birthday I have grown ever so much. 1 have 
had to let down all the tucks in my dresses, and piece 
down all my sleeves. Grandma says if I am clean and 
whole it’s no matter if I am pieced. 

Father has been to see me once since New Year’s. 
He says I have grown plump and healthy. 1 suppose 
it is because I don’t have Anybody to plague me. 

I noticed to-day, more than usual, how much 
grandma says about her sins when she prays. So I 
asked her what she could do that was bad, lying still 
there in bed. 

* You know the catechism,’ says she. ‘ What does 
the catechism say sin is ? ’ 

*■ Any want of conformity to the will of God.’ 

‘You see, then, my heart can sin while my hands 
and feet are idle.’ 

‘ But it dosen’t seem as if you did anything 
wrong, grandma.’ 

‘You think, then, that it was not needful Christ 


56 PEMAQUID. 

sho lid die for me ? that I could get to heaven with- 
out Him ? ’ 

‘ Oh, no, grandma. But it seems so strange 
for any one that really loves Him to go on 
sinning.’ 

‘Yes, it does seem strange,’ said she, ‘passing 
strange. But it is true as it is strange that even God’s 
own dear children do Sometimes wound and grieve 
Him.’ 

‘ Do you think, grandma — but no, I am sure you 
can’t think so. I was going to ask you if you 
thought I should ever be good enough to join the 
Church ? ’ 

‘ No, dear, never. But whether Christ is good 
enough to wrap you in the robe of His righteousness, 
that is another question. And that you can answer 
as well as I. You see, dear,’ she went on, after a 
while, ‘ it is just as if some great man should invite 
you to a feast at his house. You might say, I should 
like to go, but I have nothing fit to wear. And he 
would reply. But I will give you the wedding-gar- 
ment, and that will make you fit.’ 

Then it all at once seemed plain to me that I 
might get a wedding-garment. 

Grandma said yes, and that Christ was more wili- 
ng to give it than I was to receive it. 

After I came up to bed I thought a good deal 
about it. I am small of my age, and backward, and 
the Woodfords don’t take to book-learning. But for 


RUTH'S JOURNAL CONTINUED, 67 

all that, somehow, I do believe I love God, and love 
the people that love Him.' And I don’t think I should 
be afraid now to stand up in the broad aisle and join 
the Church. And, if grandma is willing, I shall. 

3* 


V. 


“Oh, what a thing is man ; how far from power, 

From settled peace and rest ! 

He is some twenty several men, at least. 

Each several hour.” 

— Geo. Herbert. 

LAWYER SNELL CONFIDES TO WIFE.” 

T hat woman ought to have been a man. She’ll 
never rest, or let any of us rest, till she gets that 
factory built. And ’taint so bad a thing either. I’ll 
take ten shares in it. It will make all the difference 
in the world to Pemaquid. The Squire’s quite inter- 
ested in the scheme, and so’s Deacon Stone and 
Josiah. Josiah is getting to be quite a man. We’ll 
get the factory built, and then we’ll see what else we 
can do. 

What kind of a factory? Why, a cotton factory. 
Kezia Millet has taken a share, if you’ll believe it 
She’s made money in all these years at the Squire’s, 
and now she wants more, though what for I can’t 
guess. 

Oh, for her mother? Yes, I suppose it is for her 
mother. Well, to go back to Mrs. Woodford. There 
aint a man in the village whose head she hasn’t turn- 
ed. She can be as agreeable, when she pleases, as 
( 58 ) 


MES. WOODFORD IS RESTIVE. 


59 


need be. But the more the men like her the more 
you women are against her. It’s always so. 

She hasn’t turned my head? No, no; I am too 
old a bird for that. But I wish I had her more in 
my power. I know enough of her past life to keep 
her in constant terror, but not enough to ruin her. 
And I do not want to ruin her. All I want is to 
have our honest debts paid, though no amount of 
money can pay for all you went through with her and 
hers. Are you particular to go over every day and 
labor with her about that debt ? That’s right. And 
I believe I will step over every evening. Between us 
both she will get exasperated into confessing to the 
Squire. I do not care so much about the money. 
What I want is to bring her to repentance. And if 
anything will bring her to repentance, it will be our 
giving her no peace. 

MRS. WOODFORD IS RESTIVE. 

It would have been better to run the risk of 
having two husbands at once than to have sent this 
small-minded Joshua Snell into the midst of my ene- 
mies and their infamous falsehoods. He and Debo- 
rah make me weary of my life. If I could only pay 
them that wretched money I might begin to have a 
little peace. However, I am wrong there. There is 
no peace for the mother of such a girl as J uliet. The 
Squire says he would cheerfully send her to a board* 


60 


FEMAQUID. 


ing-school if he could afford it, but that he can not 
command money enough. 

She has nothing lady-like in her, but in spite of 
all my remonstrances goes to all the huskings and 
other rustic amusements of the village, is very rude 
and free with the set of boy-men who frequent such 
places, and unless I can send her away will grow up 
like the vulgar herd about her. Then how Samuel 
grins at me, and flings out hints about ‘Old Grigs!* 
What does the boy know, I wonder ? 

Then there’s J^ezia! She is enough to drive an 
angel mad with the hideous doggerel she shrieks 
about the house. To-day I caught her boxing her 
own ears. 

‘ Have you gone crazy?’ I asked her. 

‘No, I haven’t gone crazy,’ she returned. ‘ I 
wish I had ! It would be better than being a mem- 
ber of the Church, as I be, and not living consistent. 
And Mis’ Woodford, our Ruth’s mother, she made 
me promise to humble my pride. So I have humbled 
it by boxing my ears. And if you’d do the same by 
your’n it would help you wonderful.’ 

Perhaps it would ; but I should prefer to box 
Deborah Snell’s. 

WHAT RUTH HAS TO SAY. 

Grandma says we are a pair of twins. That is, 
that she is as young as I am, and that I am as old as 
she is. We all get along together beautifully. There 


WHAT RUTH HAS TO SAY, 


61 


is never any scolding or fault-finding, or selfishness 
in the house. Only pious people ever come here, 
and all their talk is about good things. Grandma 
thinks and talks a great deal about heaven, and that 
makes me think about it ; but I don’t dare to say 
anything ; I don’t know enough. Grandma says she 
shall go there long before I do, and that she wants 
me to get so out of the way of being selfish now that 
I shall be more taken up with being glad for her than 
with being sorry for myself when she goes. When 
she talks that way I don’t feel like a twin at all. I 
can’t bear to think of her dying. Nobody ever help- 
ed me as she has. Nobody ever set me to reading 
such books as she has. If she could live forever I 
should like to live forever too. But she can’t. She 
is very old and very feeble, and if she dies, what shall 
I do ? What shall I do ? It is not safe for me to 
live with bad people ; I am not good enough. Even 
in this house, with these two old saints (I was going 
to say angels, but I suppose they never grow old), I 
feel wicked rebellion and resentment in my heart 
when I think of my new mother and of Juliet. This 
is all that makes me realize that I am not in heaven. 
For to live with saints, and to try, all the time, to be 
like them, is the gate of heaven, anyhow. 

I walked down to the sea-shore to-day to see the 
waves dash against the rocks after the great storm 
we had yesterday. By and by a little bird came 
flying in, all tired out with fighting against the wind 


62 


PEMAQUID, 


and dropped almost dead at my feet. I took it up 
and warmed it in my bosom. It cuddled down there 
like a kitten. And that’s the way I cuddle down in 
grandma’s arms. Nobody can know what it is like 
who hasn’t tried it. 

I don’t worry about father at all. He’s ’way 
up beyond storms. I don’t know but to get where 
he is I should much mind having such awful things 
happen to me as have happened to him. 

I can see the ocean from the window of my 
room. I like to see it by moonlight. The light goes 
tipping over it on little tiny feet. At least that’s 
the way it looks to me. Rachel says it doesn’t look 
so to her ; but then she says things never do look 
exactly alike to different people. 

‘ How large does the full moon look to you ? ’ 
says she. 

‘ About as big as a tea-plate.* 

‘ It looks to me,’ she said, ‘ as large as a wagon- 
wheel. So you see how it is.’ ” 

KEZIA GOES HOME FOR GOOD. 

There, mother, don’t ask me no questions, nor 
say another word ! You jist sit down in the corner 
where you used to sit afore I went away, and let me 
put my head in your lap and cry, just as I did then. 

“ Have I come home for good? Yes, I have come 
home for good. Do I feel better now I’ve had my 
cry? Yes, I do feel better now I’ve had my cry. 


KEZIA GOES HOME FOR GOOD, 


63 


“ Don’t I want a cup of tea? No, I don’t want no 
cups of tea. I want to git the burden off of my heart, 
and there aint no way to git it off unless your mother 
can git it off for you. You see things have got to 
such a pass to our house that I couldn’t stand it no 
longer. I was a-losing all my religion, and had a bad 
conscience gnawing at me all the time because my 
temper was riled and riled and riled. 

“Wouldn’t it ha’ been better to put up with 
things ? 

“Yes, it would have been better to put up with 
things if I could. And if she’d a bit and a barked, 
why, I could a bit and a barked, and we’d a had it 
out together. But she palavered. She said Yes 
when she meant No. And she said No when she 
meant Yes. The bait she fished the Squire with was 
our Ruth. She made believe hear her say lessons, 
and all that. But as soon as she got the Squire fairly 
caught, and had hauled him in, la ! there warn’t no 
more lessons, you may depend. She was a rum- 
magin’ over all the things, and a-turning of ’em 
upside down, and a-planin’ and a-calculatin’ till I 
rear about burst. I should have burst and been 
blowed up if it hadn’t been for Samuel, and he’d a 
burst and blowed up if it hadn’t been for me. Him 
and me we used to sit and whisper in the dark, for 
she wouldn’t let us have a candle if it was to save us. 
Sam, he kept his eye on her ; and me, I kept my eye 
on her. And one day her cousin, Mis’ Snell, she 


64 


PEMAQUID. 


come over to spend the day to our house, and the>‘ 
had a regilar row together. Sam, he heard all they 
said, for they thought he was asleep ; and he heard 
Mis’ Snell say she’d tell something she knew ag’inst 
Mis’ Woodford if she didn’t pay her for her board 
that summer. Well, I was riled and tempted enough 
afore, but after I’d heard that, Satan he got such a 
grip of me that I couldn’t behave decent. I couldn’t 
no more say my prayers than them ’ere tongs could. 
Every time I got down on my knees I’d get to 
thinking about Mis’ Pickett that was, till I was right 
down mad ; and every time I spoke to her I near 
about took her head off. If she’d a fit it out, as I was 
a-saying, we might a come to an understanding. 
But, la ! butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, she was 
so soft-spoken. And so I thought it was about time 
for me to quit. 

‘‘ Wouldn’t it have been better to stay for the sake 
of the Squire and them children? No, it wouldn’t a 
been better to stay and set ’em such an example as I 
was a-setting. 

“ Have I shown a Christian spirit to Mis’ Pickett 
that was? 

“ No, I haven’t shown a Christian spirit to Mis’ 
Pickett that was. I was clear beat out with the 
temptations. And it’s my opinion that when things 
git to such a pass that you can’t act decent, y^ou’d 
better cut and run. 

“I shall find temptations here at home? It’s no 


KEZIA GOES HOME FOR GOOD. 


63 


such a thing. Don’t you never set up your back and 
I won’t never set up mine. Don’t you go to calling 
me Keziey, my good girl, and I won’t go to callmg 
you no names neither. When I'm took with one of 
my ugly fits, you jist go ahead and let me alone. 
And if you see me a-fasting and a-praying, don’t you 
take no notice of that neither. I’m bound to git 
right somehow, and to live consistent, and I’ll work 
my passage to it, you see if I don’t. And if you’ve 
a mind to pray for your poor old Keziey, you may 
pray, mother, for you’re a master-hand at praying, 
and maybe you’ll prevail. And, mother, you’re not 
to put your hand to the house-work no more. You’re 
to sit in the chimbley corner a-knitting and a-reading 
the Bible and the hymn-book, and I’m to do the 
knocking round. There ! you needn’t go to wiping 
your eyes, and calling me a good girl. I aint a good 
girl, and I won’t have no palaver talked where I am. 
La! you can jist sit and take your ease all the rest 
of your days. You can have the numb palsy, or the 
paralytics, or any of them things that makes you 
helpless, and I’ll nuss you like a baby. 

“ You don’t want to have the numb palsy? Well, 
have the shaking palsy then ; it’s all one to me. 
Only give me a plenty to do, that’s all. 

You never saw anybody like me ? 

Well, I don’t suppose you ever did. I never did 
neither. ’Taint your faith, mother. You tried hard 
enough to git me into shape when I was a young 


66 


PEMAQUID. 


one, and you couldn’t. But, la! don’t you suppose 
the Lord can do what you can’t ? ” 

Goes off singing : 

Now like a sheep that’s lost its way, 

I’ve wandered from the fold astray. 

Temptation it was hard to bear, 

And Satan caught me unaware. 

My pride, it's had a dreadful fall ; 

But then the Squire had no call 
To bring that artful creetur home ; 

For hir and me there wasn’t room. 


VI. 


“He shall give His angels charge over thee to keep thee in all th^ 
ways.” 

“ Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslid- 
ings.” 

ruth’s journal. 

I HAVE met with another providence, and must 
write it down. One Saturday Rachel said she 
felt snow in the air, and that she should draw four or 
five pails of water before the storm came on. The 
storm came very soon, and it snowed all day and all 
night. In the morning Rachel complained of her 
throat, and said she felt chills running all over her, 
and was afraid she was going to have the throat dis- 
temper. She made herself some herb tea, and sat by 
the fire, with a shawl on. Grandma said I had better 
go to Deacon Titcomb’s and ask to ride to meeting 
with him and his folks in his double sleigh. Rachel 
said it was very cold, and she made me wear her hood 
over my hood, and her moccasins over my moccasins, 
and I kissed grandma good-bye, and set out. I start- 
ed early, so as to be sure to get to the deacon’s in 
good season. But I started too early. Nobody 
had got out yet, and no paths or roads had been cut, 


C8 


PEMAQUin, 


and all I could see was one great, white sheet of 
snow. I turned my face toward the deacon’s, and 
fought my way on a few steps, and then I came to a 
fence that was hidden by the snow, so I knew I 
wasn t in the road. I thought I would turn round 
and go home in my own track, but just then the wind 
caught Rachel’s hood off my head and carried it the 
other way; and just as I would struggle up to it, 
away it would go again. I went on pushing and 
fighting till I was out of breath, but I could not see a 
sign of anything that would tell me which way to go. 
The snow was above my head in some places, where it 
had drifted, and when I got into such a spot I had to 
scramble out of it as fast as I could. I began to feel 
very tired and cold, and to wish the bells would ring 
for meeting, or that somebody would come and help 
me. Then I got bewildered, and went this way and 
that. Then I was frightened, and began to cry out 
for help. But no help came, and I was so tired that 
the last time I fell down I did not try to get up, but 
lay like a stone, all beat out. Then I grew sleepy, 
and got a notion I was in bed at home ; so I tried to 
say my prayers, but the words wouldn’t come. Then 
I said, “O God, let me just get a little warm first, 
and a little rested, and then wake me up to say my 
prayers.” 

At noon, when I did not come home, grandma was 
not worried. She thought as Rachel could not go to 
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“ Just as I was settling down to sleep she caught me in her arms and held 

me to her breast.” Page 69^ 







RUTH'S JOURNAL. 


69 


But when it came time for afternoon meeting to be 
done, and still I did not come, she became so distress- 
ed that the only way she could lie still was by crying 
out to God with all her might. Rachel was so sick 
that she had gone to bed, and it would be as much 
as her life was worth to go out in such a storm, 'and 
our nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away. 
What could poor grandma do ? She had lain help- 
less in bed fourteen years. She was in such anguish 
that her strength came to her as if she had been 
young. She got out of bed, she found Rachel’s 
clothes and put them on, she stole out of the house, 
and out into the storm ; but she did not look down 
to find me : she looked upward, to where there was an 
Eye that saw all things, and she cried out, “ Guide 
me to my son’s ewe lamb ! O my God, guide me I 
My only hope is in Thee ! ” 

She never knew how far she went, but she went on 
till her foot touched me, just as I was settling down 
to sleep, and she caught me in her arms, and held me 
to her breast, and praised God. Just then the deacon 
and his wife came in sight. They had been to see 
their married daughter, and were going home. They 
did not pester us with questions, but they lifted us 
into the sleigh, and wrapped us up, and took us 
home. The deacon felt round till he found the steel 
and tinder, and so got a match lighted and a candle, 
and they made up the fire that had gone out, and 
put on the tea-kettle, and made us tea ; and by that 


70 


PEMAQUID, 


time grandma was all beat out and as helpless as 
ever, and Mrs. Titcomb undressed her and put her to 
bed, and then undressed me, and put me to bed too* 
alongside her. Rachel never knew anything about 
it till the next day, and then she wouldn’t believe it, 
and said we had been dreaming. And when the 
deacon said it was not a dream, she said the Lord 
had more sense than to send poor old grandma out 
into the snow, for He could have carried me home 
Himself if there was no other way to save me. But 
grandma says He works by means, and that He 
wrought a miracle for her, and gave her strength for 
the time, according to her faith. 

“ Then why don’t you exercise faith all the time 
and get well ? ” says Rachel. 

Then grandma said she could exercise faith for her 
son’s sake that she could not exercise for herself. 
Still she seemed puzzled, and lay thinking all day. 

Word came in that the Widow Doane’s sheep were 
all out in the storm, and had been sheltered by the 
snow, and not one had died. 

“It was the same snow that sheltered my son’s 
ewe lamb,’’ said grandma. 

They say the snow is now five feet deep. 

People talk a great deal about grandma’s exploit, 
but she says it was a miracle of God’s grace, and that 
if anybody else could have found me, He would not 
have sent her. 


RUTH'S JOURNAL. 71 

“ But why could no one else find her, grandma ? ” 
says Rachel. 

“ Because no one else loves her so,” says grandma. 
“ Cords of love drew me to her. I went straight to 
where she was.” 

“ Then if cords of love drew you, there was no 
need of God,” says Rachel. 

Then grandma was puzzled again, and said she 
never did know how to argufy. 

But she told me to bring a piece of paper and a 
pen, and to write these words, to be read next Sun- 
day at meeting, just before the long prayer : 

“The widow Woodford desires to return thanks to 
Almighty God for the great deliverance He hath 
wrought for her grandchild.” 

And she said a spared life ought to be consecrated 
to God. 

I think so too. 

I feel very solemn when I think how near I came 
to being frozen to death. Where would my soul 
have gone if I had ? 

Oh, I have been so wicked, right after • my great 
deliverance ! I carried grandma’s note to meeting 
and our minister read it to the people, and then he 
prayed an hour. Just before he got through I heard 
a little noise in the next pew, and opened my eyes — 
that is, I partly opened them — and there was Jesse 
Titcomb slyly lifting up his father s seat behind him 


72 


PEMAQUID. 


and when he went to sit dow^n he went way down to 
the floor. Then I laughed. Yes, I laughed at meet- 
ing ! I laughed in the house of God ! And then I 
cried. Oh, what a sinful child I had been ! And 
crying could not wash sin away. 

After meeting people wanted to make much of me 
because of my great deliverance, but I broke away 
and ran home and frightened poor grandma almost 
out of her wits by telling her I was afraid I had com- 
mitted the unpardonable sin. 

But she said I was not given to levity, and that 
she was sure I did not laugh on purpose, and, at any 
rate, God would forgive me and be my deliverer from 
temptation, as He had delivered me from death. 
And she said people ought to be more taken up with 
writing sweet, loving things about God than with 
writing bitter things against their selves. 

I am spent with crying. 

MRS. WOODFORD ONCE MORE. 

There has been a terrible distemper raging in this 
region, and it has swept away the young children 
like a tempest. Mr. Strong came to-day to inform 
me that Deborah Snell was near her end and was 
eager to see me. 

I asked if she had the distemper, for if she had, of 
course I should not dare to go. He said there was 
nothing infectious in the case, and that it was my 
duty to gratify my relative’s last wishes. 


MRS. WOODFORD ONCE MORE, 


73 


I dread the thought of death, much more the sight 
of it. Still it would not be pleasant to let it put a 
seal to the enmity between us, and we might part 
friends. 

I concluded to go. 

I found Deborah eagerly awaiting me. She had 
sent several messengers in pursuit of me. 

Let every one go out of the room but us two,’* 
she said, as soon as I entered. We were left- alone 
together. 

I v/ent up to her and said how sorry I was to see 
her in this condition. 

“ I don’t know about that,” she returned sharply. 

* I rather think you’ve wished more’n once that I 
was out of the way. You’ve reckoned it would be 
one the less to tell your secrets. Well, I’m going! 
Seciets and all. I’m going! And I’ll tell you what 
it is. Cousin Woodford, death may do to joke about 
when you’re up and about, but when you come to 
face it, it’s an awful, awful thing. All your sins come 
and stand round your bed so thick you can’t see 
nothing else, hardly. You remember the things ^ou 
did when you was a little girl, and them you did 
when you was a-growing up, and, worst of all, the 
things you did when you was grown up and knew 
better. 

^‘You turn this way and you turn that way, and 
you make this excuse and you make that excuse, but 

it aint no use. Then you give up and expect noth- 

4 


74 


PEMAQUID. 


ing but to be lost forever and ever. And j ast as you 
get there, and your heart’s broken all to pieces with 
its shame and its sorrow, why, then you get a glimpse 
of the Loid Jesus, such as you aint had for many a 
long year, having been a miserable backslider and 
cold and dead as a stone. Well, that glimpse grieves 
you so that there aint left nothing of you. You 
just give up and there’s the end of it.” 

But, Deborah,” I said, “ you are a member of the 
Church and you’ve not done any such dreadful things. 
You are low-spirited and can’t see yourself as you 
really are.” 

“ Don’t tell me,” she said. “ I never saw things so 
clear as I do now in my life. The time has been 
I set myself above you and thought your company 
wasn’t fit for me. But now I see that in the sight of 
God I’m a bigger sinner than you are. I’ve had light, 
and you haven’t. I was brought up under the drop- 
pings of the sanctuary, and you wasn’t. I’ve stood 
up before angels and men, and promised to love and 
' serve God with all my heart, and I aint kept my 
v^Wrd. And now I’m going to die. And if it wasn’t 
for that glimpse of Christ, Oh, how dark, how dark the 
grave would look ! But I keep a-gettiiig them glimpses, 
and I don’t know ; maybe there’ll be some little cor- 
ner in heaven, away off from those that walked 
worthy, some out-of-the-way place I can creep into ana 
just stay there, a-getting glimpses through all eternity.” 

Her earnestness and her solemnity, and the pale 


MRS. WOODFORD ONCE MORE 


75 


shadov/ of death on her brow, moved me to my very 
foundations. 

‘‘ Oh, Deborah, if death looks so awful to you, how 
must it look to me? ” 

Then don’t look at it,” she said feebly, the tem- 
porary excitement that had sustained her beginning 
now to give away. “Just look at the Lord Jesus. 
And, Cousin Woodford, it’s my last word before I go : 
dpn’t put it off to such a time as this. It’s no time 
at all. Lifes the time — ” 

She sank back upon her pillow ; her eyes became 
fixed ; I had only time to call her husband before she 
was gone. 

One moment here, delivering to me her parting 
message; the next moment — where? 

I went home, and as I went I wondered how the 
sun could shine and the busy works of nature and of 
man go on in a world subject to such terrific myste- 
ries as this ! 

Mr. Woodford met me with unusual gentleness, 
and after dinner begged me to go to my room and lie 
down. But I could not sleep. My guilty life went 
surging through my brain, back and forth, back and 
forth, with .relentless progress. The exceeding sin- 
fulness of sin was beginning to become manifest to 
me. I abhorred, I shrank from myself. 

It is a long time since I have had leisure to write. 
After endless labors, and a severe conflict with in- 


76 


PEMAQUID. 


numerable difficulties, I have pushed the matter of 
the factory through, and it is in successful operation, 
and money flows in apace. Juliet has been away at 
a boarding-school more than a year. I have been to 
see her once, and found her in disgrace of all sorts. 
I will not allow her to come home until she shows 
some signs of amendment. But I believe girls at her 
age are always unruly and restive. 

Ruth writes home regularly once a month. She 
seems quite happy in the aged life she is leading. 
Her father goes often to see her, and she comes home 
now and then. Her grandmother says her character 
is lovely. When I look forward to declining years, 
or old age, I always rejoice that I shall have this un- 
selfish, good-natured little puss to wait upon me. I 
can not conceive of care of any sort from Juliet. 

Ruth ‘‘joined the Church” last Sunday, to Mr. 
Woodford’s great delight. I can not understand the 
pleasure this gives him. But to these Puritans that 
step seems to be what getting married is in a novel. 
The curtain falls on this act as if »t were toward that 
point, and for it, the whole scene had tended. The 
fact is, however, life really begins with a happy mar- 
riage, if there is such a thing on earth. And if I 
were going to join the Church, I should feel that it 
was one of the first of my real steps on earth — the 
beginning of a march, not the end of a journey. And 
I would not settle down at my ease, as most people 
seem to do, at that point, I would be something, or 


MES. IVOODFORI) ONCE MORE. 


71 


nothing. I would be a saint — not an uncomfortable 
sinner. 

It is two years since I sent Juliet away. She is 
now seventeen. A handsomer young woman is rare- 
ly to be seen. She has left off some of her most dis- 
agreeable ways, and is, at times, really attractive. 
Her teacher says the trouble now is to keep off a 
crowd of boys, calling themselves young men, who 
are constantly prowling around her. But such things 
can not be avoided— and the child must have her lit- 
tle pleasures. 

My cares and trials multiply, and I have no refuge. 
Mr. Woodford’s children have turned out so well that 
he could not sympathize with me now, if he would. 

About two weeks ago I received a letter from 
Juliet’s teacher, enclosing a little bill for confection- 
ery and the like, that this child has actually ventured 
to run up in my name. The amount is so large that 
I am sure she has played Lady Bountiful to the 
whole school. I hurried to the spot, reproved the 
confectioner, upbraided Juliet, and made myself fairly 
ill with vexation and shame. Juliet laughed at my 
distress, and declared it was all my fault ; there was 
nothing fit to eat at the table ; she had no money to 
get what she needed ; all the other girls had boxes 
of ‘‘ goodies ” sent them from home, etc., etc. I 
spoke to Miss Temple about the table. She said ] 


78 


PEMAQUID, 


could judge for myself whether it was comfortable 
or not, and begged me to drop in at any meal I 
chose. 

The result was another scene with Juliet, who still 
maintained that things were not as good as they were 
at home. The end of it was her removal to another 
school, where she is to be under strict government 
and have even plainer food than before. What am I 
to do with the child ? She has no law before her 
eyes ; her one study is to please herself. I can not 
see that she has a particle of respect or affection for 
me. In my despair I went to see Mr. Strong. Every- 
body else goes to him for comfort, why should not I ? 

He received me with great kindness and courtesy, 
and expressed real sympathy for my sufferings. 

“Juliet is still quite young,” he said. “We must 
hope for the best. God’s grace can do the work man 
throws down in despair. Is she under good moral in- 
fluences at school ? ” 

I said I supposed she was, of course. 

“Unless you are sure on that point,” he said, 
“would it not be better to take her home, watch her 
with such care as only a mother can give, instruct her 
in her duty to yourself and to God, and, above all, 
constantly implore His blessing on her behalf?” 

“ But I can do nothing with her,” I returned. “ She 
is the most headstrong creature I ever saw. Indeed, 
I never had any contarol over her. I supposed that 
as she grew older she would become more reasonable 


MPS. WOODFORD ONCE MORE. 


79 


But on the contrary she grows more and more self- 
willed.” 

Mr. Strong was silent for a time. 

“ Such characters often turn out useful ones,” he 
said at last. If God takes them in hand and beats 
them into shape, lack of early discipline is sometimes 
more than atoned for.” 

“That depends on when He begins Hi? work,” I 
said, desperately. “ Discipline embitters and sours 
those whom it attacks too late.” 

“ There is no too late with God,” he returned. “ He 
can begin and finish His work at the eleventh hour. 
And discipline that He sends and sanctifies does not 
embitter. It softens and moulds and sweetens and 
ennobles.” 

“ Ah, it is easy to theorize about such things,” I 
said. “You have never knov/n, and never needed to 
know, such shame and sorrow as I writhe under. Your 
life has been all sunshine.” 

He smiled, a little sadly. 

■“ That is not true of any life,” he said. “ I have 
had not a little real happiness, but I was not fit to 
enjoy it till I had passed under the rod. Because you 
can not see the friction on the wheels of a man’s life, 
it is not safe to conclude there is no friction. Every 
heart knoweth its own bitterness.” 

“ And we go about the world regular Spartans, our 
sorrows gnawing into us, and our faces covered with 
6mile.s! ” 


80 


PEMAQUID, 


Nay, some of us go about regular Christians / * 
he returned. “We know our pains and our disap< 
pointments, but we take them, with loving hands, 
straight from Hands yet more loving, and they bring 
forth in due season most peaceable fruits.” 

He said no more. If he had done so I was in the 
mood to strike him. 


VII, 


"The way of the wicked He turneth upside Jown.** 

MRS. STR(3NG ON THE SITUATION. 

Y es, we dined at the Squire’s on Thanksgiving 
Day. It was the first invitation for four years. 
Things are entirely changed there. Samuel was not 
at home, nor Ruth, which is strange ; but the stran- 
gest thing of all is a Thanksgiving dinner without 
Kezia to cook it, and hardly a thing on the table fit 
to eat. The Squire had no appetite, and, as baby 
cried, he made that an excuse for leaving the table 
and walking up and down with it. I never saw a man 
so fond of little children. 

Mrs. Woodford fidgeted in her chair as if, somehow* 
baby was defrauding her of something she wanted, 
or ought to have. She couldn’t have been more 
than thirty when she married the Squire, and now 
she looks every minute of fifty. After dinner they 
asked me if I knew of a private family that would 
take a pious young man to board. I looked at my 
husband, and he looked at me. At last I said I 
would take him as an experiment, as he was a pious 

youth. The Squire replied that he was the son of a 
• ( 81 ) 


82 


PEMAQUID, 


widow of no means, had struggled his way through 
college, and now wanted to earn enough to carry 
him through a course in theology. 

“ I have need of a book-keeper in Samuel’s place,” 
he added, “ and have promised him the situation.” 

So Samuel is gone for good, it seems. I wonder 
why? However, it is not for me to pry into family 
secrets. If he had gone for any pleasant reason the 
Squire would have come and told us, as he always 
does, poor man, if there is anything agreeable to tell. 
Well, to go back to the book-keeper; the idea of a 
Religious young man in the house was rather pleasant 
than otherwise. The Squire then inquired if there 
were any specially needy cases in the parish, and 
gave my husband money to spend among them. 
That seemed exactly like old times. There must be 
a change in Mrs. Woodford. She certainly seems 
softened. After we reached home Mr. Strong said 
to me; 

“You generally see things sooner than I do, but 
to-day I have the advantage of you. The Squire 
has heard of a deserving, but needy, young man, and 
it is just like him to come to his rescue. He knows 
how hard we find it to live on my small salary, and 
gives us the first chance to eke it out through this 
boarder.” 

So it is ; exactly like him ; I wonder I did not see 
that before. What a mercy it is going to be to earn 
a little money. Mr. Strong needs books, and I need 


MRS. WOOBFORD. 


83 


everythinij, with those children to clothe. How a 
kind Providence watches over us! Thanks to the 
Squire, and other friends, we are amply supplied with 
groceries, such as flour, apples, cheese, spices, raisins, 
wine, and brandy. The latter I keep in case of sick^ 
ness ; the wine I give to Mr. Strong when he comes 
home unusually fatigued. Thanksgiving is a glad 
season for a poor New England minister. 

MRS. WOODFORD. 

I have a plan in regard to Juliet which, if carried 
out, will relieve me from the annoyance I feel about 
the money I have laid aside for her. Samuel is now 
a fine-looking young man, well informed for a Pema- 
quid youth, for he is a great reader ; he has a good 
salary, and can afford to marry, and would make Juliet 
a faithful husband. He never goes round with girls, as 
other young men do, so I am sure his heart is un- 
touched. It is true they have always hated each 
other, but separation may have done away with that 
sort of thing. Once married to Juliet, the money 
would come back to him, and I should only antedate 
the day when he should become his father’s heir. I 
can hardly believe that this handsome young man is 
the dull, awkward boy I found him. He has the po- 
sition of book-keeper in his father’s office. Mr. 
Woodford has displayed more business talent than I 
could have believed he possessed. He is very gener- 
ous to me in regard to money; but this gives me 


84 


PEMAQUID, 


little satisfaction. I have a weariness and a disgust 
of life that is wel^-nigh insupportable. 

A month ago, early one morning, Mr. Woodford 
brought in and placed on the fire a heavy stick of 
wood. As he rose from his stooping posture, after 
arranging it, a sudden pallor overspread his face, and 
he put both hands to his chest. I led him to a chair, 
and supported his head on my breast, while I called 
loudly for help. Samuel opened the windows, think- 
ing this to be a fainting fit ; to me it looked like 
death itself. As I stood there, holding that noble 
head, I knew what I had suspected before — I loved 
that man ! 

“ Are you going to let him die for the want of a 
doctor ? ” I said hoarsely to Samuel, who stood star- 
ing helplessly at us both. ** Saddle one of the 
horses, some of you, and tell the doctor to ride for 
his life ! ” 

They all flew in different directions, and I stood 
holding the head whose weight seemed every second 
to grow heavier and heavier. Once I proposed to lay 
him on the floor — for there was no couch in the room 
— but he resisted my efforts. 

I could not breathe lying down,” he said. 

Before the doctor arrived the spasm of pain had 
subsided, but his color had not returned. After a 
few questions, the doctor declared, sepulchrally : 

‘‘ Disease of the heart ! ” and after a few unmean- 
ing remarks, took leave. 


MES, WOODFORD. 


85 


Mr. Woodford sat in his chair, silent send thought- 
ful. His face looked like the face of an angel. 

“ I thought myself almost there ! ” he said, looking 
upward, with a smile. 

Seeing him at last entirely relieved, I left him with 
Samuel, and went to my bedroom. Then I faced 
the awful truth — I loved that man, and he was my 
husband, but he never had loved me. 

This is the first line I have written since that day. 
Mr. Woodford has had no recurrence of the attack. 
The doctor may possibly have mistaken its nature. I 
can see, however, that Mr. Woodford has set his house 
in order and girded himself to depart at a moment’s 
notice. He has made Samuel familiar with all the 
business details of the factory, and given him full 
authority to act in his place. Samuel is now as tall 
as his father, and very like him in person. A finer- 
looking young man is not often seen. His manner to 
me has improved not a little. He treats me with 
perfect civility, and never crosses my path in any way. 

To-day is Sunday. Mr. Strong preached this after- 
noon on the text, “ Every heart knoweth its own 
bitterness.” Surely no heart knows such as mine. 

I try in every way to make myself agreeable to my 
husband. All his old habits I have revived. I pre- 
pare a bountiful table, and he can invite all Pemaquid 
to it when he choose:^. I f^ll in with his ways of 


86 


PEMAQUID. 


■‘sending portions,’* as Kezia used to call it, and 
faiily pamper all the Strongs. By the by, there are 
four children there now, and Mrs. Strong as jocund 
as ever. But nothing moves him. He is perfectly 
civil and kind, but never more than that. I would 
prefer a little occasional discord to this wearisome, 
superficial harmony. 

I must say the fates deal harshly with me. Why 
should I not have the love of my husband, since I 
stoop to desire it? I am still young and attractive; 
I have never spoken to him a harsh word ; I fall in 
with his whims, and submit to all his wishes. I am 
his superior in education and intellect, it is true ; but 
it is not this that comes between us. He respects 
himself — not unduly, but as a man should — and never 
has stood in awe of me. I would defy any woman to 
live in the same house with him as long as I have 
done and not feel the uprightness and beauty of his 
life. But what is love without a return? 

Mr. Woodford has had another of those alarming 
attacks. This time I took no pains to conceal my 
anxiety and — yes, I will own it — my distress. He 
seemed surprised at my tears, and expressed much 
gratitude for the interest I had shown in him. 

“ I suppose you know, my dear,” he said on recov- 
ering from the spasm, “ that sooner or later I shall go 
off in one of these attacks. I have arranged my worldly 
affairs so that I can leave them at any moment.” 


MRS. WOODFORD. 


81 


I said I wondered he could speak so cheerfully on 
such a gloomy subject. 

He smiled, and declared it was not a gloomy sub- 
ject. 

“ What is there gloomy in the thought of getting 
rid of a body of sin and death, and waking up in 
heaven? ” he asked. 

“ But death is such a solemn, such an awful event,” 
I said. 

“ Solemn, but not awful,” he replied. 

“ It may not be awful to those who expect to go 
directly to heaven,” I said. “ It must be pleasant to 
think of escaping the troubles of life and getting a 
shelter from its storms.” 

“ It isn’t heaven to me to escape troubles,” he re- 
turned. “ It is sin I long to escape. My troubles 
have been few and small. But my sins ! Oh, they 
have been without limit ! ” 

Was there anything more absurd ? After a long 
silence, he broke out with — 

“ My dear, shall you come to meet me there ? ” 

I said I hoped so. God :z merciful. He makes 
allowance for human infirmity. 

“ Yes, if we love Him and have faith in Him. But 
heaven will not be heaven to us without love, you 
know.” 

Yes, I know. But what can I do? There are 
those things in my life that ®tand as impassable bar- 
riers between me and such experiences as his. Yet 


88 


PEMAQUID, 


when I see his face actually transfigured with joy 1 
can not help envying him his more favored lot. Al- 
lowing it to be all a delusion, it is a safe delusion. 
Allowing mine to be a delusion, where will it end ? 

I plunged from one horror into another. Since 
writing the above I have had the most terrible scene 
with Samuel. A few days ago as I was at the post- 
office, Deacon Stone, who keeps it, handed me a 
letter addressed to the youngster. My curiosity was 
not a little excited when I observed that it was a 
feminine letter. 

“ What young lady corresponds with Samuel ? *’ I 
inquired, as carelessly as I could. 

“ O, it won’t do to tell tales,” said the Deacon. 

Samuel is too likely a young man not to have his 
admirers.” 

‘‘ It is a regular correspondent, is it ? ” 

“ O, I can’t say. Their letters go back and forth 
as young folks’ letters will.” 

I came home with the letter in my hands, and no 
little uneasiness in my heart. If my project of mar- 
rying Samuel to Juliet should fail, what am I to do ? 
That money oppresses me. I wish I was fairly rid of 
it. It stands between me and peace of mind. I 
know not why — it was not always so — but of late I 
am tempted to curse the day I began to put my hand 
to such unsatisfactory work. 

On reaching home I examined the letter on all 


MRS, WOODFORD. 


89 


sides. It was sealed with a large red wafer, pressed 
down with a thimble — a brass thimble, I have no 
doubt. My evil genius suggested that there would 
be no harm in opening the letter and just learning the 
name of the writer. Steam from the tea-kettle, al- 
ready boiling for tea, would do that in a trice. It was 
easy to get everybody out of the way, and to soften 
the wafer, but in opening the letter I could not help 
tearing it a good deal, the wafer was so large and so 
firmly pressed down to the paper. But, at the mo- 
ment, I did not heed that. I hurried to my. room, 
went to the window, and glanced quickly at the signa 
ture — Ellen Wyman.” But the name threw no light 
on the subject ; it was necessary to read the letter, 
after all. I had finished the first page, hurriedly, 
when I recollected that my door was unfastened; 
some one might enter and detect me at my work. I 
went, letter in hand, to repair this error, and con- 
fronted Samuel, who said, quickly : 

The Deacon says there was a letter for me. 
Where is it ? ” 

At this moment his eyes fell upon it, opened in my 
hand. He became pale as death, and threw himself 
upon me like a tiger. For a single instant I held it 
aloft out of his reach, then looked round in despair 
for some way of escape, and seeing none, let him 
rend it from my grasp. 

“ One of us must leave this house,” he said in my 
ear “You or I. It is too strait to hold us both 
after this.” 


90 


PEMAQUID. 


He rushed away like a madman. 

A few minutes before, all was going well. But what 
terrible mistakes can be committed in a few moments I 
Mistakes a lifetime can not rectify. I went down- 
stairs and met Mr. Woodford. 

“Why, is anything the matter?” he cried. “You 
and Samuel lock as if you had just seen a ghost ! ” 

“ Where is Samuel ? I must see him. There is a 
terrible misunderstanding between us.” 

“ I do not know. I believe he has gone to his 
room. What is the trouble? Let me mediate be- 
tween you. Poor boy, his temper is fearful when 
once roused.” 

I hardly waited to hear him through, but hurried 
past him, up the stairs that led to Samuel’s room. I 
knocked, but there was no answer. I tried the door, 
but it was fastened on the inside. But I could hear 
draws opened and shut, and the sound of hasty move- 
ments. 

“ Samuel, I entreat you to hear me a moment.” 

He came to the door, put his I’ps to the key-hole 
and said : 

Fool! ” and resumed his labors. 

“ Samuel,” I repeated, “ remember that sudden ex- 
citement would be the death of your father.” 

There was immediate silence. Then, opening the 
door, he said, bitterly : 

**You should have remembered that an hour ago.” 

“Yes, I know, I know! But oh, Samuel, it was a 


MES. WOODFORD. 


91 


sudden temptation. I did not mean to read your let* 
ter. Indeed, I have only read a part of it. But if your 
father learns it, if you tell your father, it will kill 
him.” 

“ I have no intention of telling him, Mrs. Wood- 
ford. I shall leave you in undisturbed possession of 
the house from which you have driven both my fa- 
ther’s children. God grant it may not be his turn to 
go next.” 

He closed the door in my face and I went down to 
tea. Mr. Woodford asked me no more questions, 
and we passed through the meal in silence. After a 
time Samuel came in. 

‘‘ Father,” he said, “you will have to look out for a 
book-keeper to take my place. Fm off before day- 
light to-morrow.” 

Mr. Woodford still asked no questions ; but he be- 
came very pale, and passed his hand uneasily over his 
chest. 

“ The accounts are all fair and square,” continued 
Samuel. “ You will have no trouble with the books. 
And now, as I am going away to seek my fortune, I 
should like your blessing, father, and leave to pay 
myself up to this time what the concern owes me. It 
is all I shall ever want, and whatever else would have 
come to me I make over to Ruth. And, father. I’ll 
try to make a man of myself and not to disgrace 
your name.” 

Mr. Woodford still sat without a word. At last he 


92 PEMAQUID. 

rose up and laid his hand on his son’s head, and 
blessed him. 

God be gracious to you, my son,” he said. 

At these words, uttered in a trembling voice, Sam- 
uel’s assumed coolness melted away, and tears began 
to run down his cheeks. 

“ Say the word, father, and I won’t go,” he said. 

No, my son. You are old enough to choose for 
yourself.” 

I stole away and left them together. At breakfast 
next morning Samuel’s seat was empty, and I knew 
that he was gone. So here ends my scheme for Ju- 
liet’s future. I hope that ungrateful child will repay 
me, sooner or later, for all she has cost me. At 
family prayers, after Samuel had gone, Mr. Wood- 
ford, who reads in course, came to the verse : 

If I am bereaved of my children I am bereaved,” 
and then he broke down. He nerved himself, by a 
great effort, and knelt and prayed like a little child. 
I wish / cculd break down. I almost wish 1 could 


pray. 


VIII. 


“ I dwell among mine own people ** 

“ Life I we’ve been long together, 

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 

’Tis hard to part when friends are dear — 

Perhaps ’twill cause a sigh, a tear : 

Then steal away, give little warning. 

Choose thine own time. 

Say not ‘Good-night,’ but in some brighter clime 
Bid me ‘ Good-morning.’ ** 

ruth’s journal. 

I AM eighteen years old to-day, and grandma asked 
me what I should do when she died. I began to 
cry, and said I should die too. 

She said, “ I want you to stop crying, my child, and 
listen to me. I am very aged, and it can not be very 
long before I come to the end of my pilgrimage ; and 
it will half spoil my comfort in going if 1 see you cow- 
ardly and- rebellious about it. Now, of course, you 
will feel my loss at first a good deal, because I have 
been as a mother to you. But I want you to glorify 
God by bearing your pain bravely and patiently, just 
as you would any other sort of pain — such as sick- 
ness, for instance. As to dying, you will do no such 
thing. There is a great deal of talk about broken 
hearts, nowadays ; but do you know of any one in 

Pemaquid or Kittery Point that ever died of grief?’ 

( 93 > 


94 


FEMAQUID. 


I had to own I never had. 

“You wish I would stop talking on a subject so 
painful,” she went on. “ But I want to help strengthen 
you for what must come. And when I am called 
home, don't take on as if nobody ever had a sorrow 
before. You will probably live to have your heart 
ache far harder over living troubles than dead ones. 
I see you do not believe me ; how should you, at 
your age ? But let me say one thing more for your 
comfort. Or, no ; bring your Bible and read the 
story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.” 

I read it, and her dear old face began to shine. 

“ Don’t be afraid of the furnace, child, after this. 
You don’t know what it is to be there, with the Son 
of God to see that the fire is not too hot ; besides, 
you can not get grace against sorrow before it comes, 
any more than you can get dying grace till you come 
to die. But I can tell you that you will be astonish- 
ed at the way in which you will be supported if you 
put your trust in God, who says, ‘ As one whom His 
mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.’ ” 

While grandma was talking I began to feel very 
brave, and as if I could stand anything. Still I said : 

“ But the Widow Green lived to be ninety ! ” 

“ And would you have your poor old grandma live 
to be a burden and trial to herself and everybody 
about her ? ” 

“ She was very large and heavy, and hard to lift , 


MRS. WOODFORD PROCEEDS, 


95 


but you are small and light, and I can’t imagine you 
as being a burden.” 

“ It’s the old story over again,” grandma said. 
“ Young people must earn their own experience ; and 
it is such a pity ! ” 

But sini e I came to my room and wrote down 
what she said, it has come to me that I dread her 
<^yirig, not just because I should miss her love, 
but because she helps me so on my pilgrimage. 
But I shall promise God that I won’t stand between 
Him and grandma, and hinder her getting to the end 
of hers. But my heart bends right up double when I 
think how old and how feeble she is, and what may 
come any day. 

Oh, how stupid and wrong I was ! Why couldn’t I 
believe dear grandma when she said God would com- 
fort me if I would trust Him ! After I wrote that I 
knelt down and said, “Thy will be done! Thy will 
be done 1 ” and there came to me such sweet peace 
that I could hardly help dancing about my room ; 
but I hope I shall never do anything so worldly as 
that. 

MRS. WOODFORD PROCEEDS. 

Since the first burst of emotion on the morning 
after Samuel left, Mr. Woodford has been as tranquil 
as ever. He never mentions his name now; but 1 
can see that he misses him sadly. My own disap. 


96 


PEMAQUID. 


pointment at the failure of my plans for him and 
Juliet is very bitter. For after I had paid the Snells, 
I began to deposit small sums of money in a savings 
bank at Aroostook, a thriving town about six miles 
from here. It was for Juliet, not for myself; but as 
she is a minor, I had to deposit it as her trustee. If 
I could have arranged a marriage between her and 
Samuel, my conscience would have been perfectly at 
rest ; as it is, I am tortured with fears of discovery. 
Once I would have braved detection ; now I can 
not. I value my husband’s esteem above everything 
on earth. A glance of contempt from him would 
kill me. 

All these years of strategy have begun to wear 
upon me. I live in mortal terror. L ought, in some 
way, to let Juliet know about her money ; and yet if 
I tell her now it will be the signal of new extrava- 
gances on her part. It will be better to address to 
her a sealed letter, to be opened only in case of my 
death, telling her how to proceed to procure the 
money, and directing her also to destroy this manu- 
script. But for pouring out my cares on this paper I 
should have lost my senses. 

Mr. Woodford says he has heard of the son of an 
old friend, whom he shall secure as book-keeper in 
Samuels place, and that he shall let Mrs. Strong 
take him to board, if she wishes it, as she and Mr. 
Strong find it hard work to live on their salary. 

But I do not see how she can endure any new 


MRS. WOODFORI? PROCEEDS. 


97 


cares. The Pemaquiders seem to regard her as theit 
property, exactly as they do Mr. Strong. She has to 
be the First Directress of the Sewing Society, the 
leader of the Female Prayer-meeting, the Treasurer 
of the Bible Society and of the Auxiliary Tract So- 
ciety; she has charge of the Juvenile Benevolent 
Society, the Female Benevolent Society— and they 
are talking of having a Foreign Mission Society be- 
sides. She cuts out every shroud in the village. 
She settles all the feuds that arise between the choir 
and the parish ; and her only “ help is a young girl 
she is bringing up,” forsooth ! I should like to be 
the minister’s wife here for one week. They would 
not find it so easy to make a slave of me ! 

Mr. Strong spent the evening here. It seemb his 
fame has extended to a large city; commissioners 
have come to hear him preach, and he has been 
“ called ” to an important church there. He came to 
consult Mr. Woodford about it — as if theie could be 
any question in his mind about leaving his present 
laborious and obscure position ! How men dilly-dally 
over matters women settle, as the Pemjiqaiders say, 
in a jiffy ! 

Meanwhile I have been making the acquaintance 
of our new book-keeper, whom he brought with him. 
He is a bright, joyous, attractive young fellow, better 
educated than any one else in Pemaqaid, except Mr. 

Strong. Mr. Woodford likes him, and, I believe 

6 


98 


PEMAQUID. 


goes to the Strongs oftener than ever. If he takes a 
fancy to advance his interests as he did Samuel’s, 
why not secure him for Juliet? Meantime I shall 
take care to make myself agreeable to him. 

KEZIA MILLET GETS A LETTER. 

Why, look here, mother ! I’ve got a letter from 
Pemaquid, and things is goin’ on awful there. I al- 
ways said our minister wasn’t one of the common 
sort, and I’ve argufyed about it with Lawyer Snell 
and Mis’ Snell forty times if I have once. And now 
he’s got a call to go to the city of Broadstairs, if you 
know whereabouts that is — Pm sure I don’t — and all 
Pemaquid is lamentin’, and the Church has appointed 
a day of fasting and prayer, and all the widows is 
crying out to heaven not to take away their live idol 
that they’ve been worshippin’ and bowin’ down to, as 
if he was great A, little a-ron’s golden calf. They 
say if he’ll go, they’ll give him a big salary and put 
him in a handsome house, and his wife can keep two 
girls if she’s a mind to, and have their children go to 
first-rate schools, and I don’t know what not. 

Of course he’ll go ; there aint no of course about 
it. It’ll be just as the Lord says, and if He says stay 
at Pemaquid, our minister’ll stay. I declare. I’m all 
in a flurry about it. And, la! mother, who do you 
think’s dead ? Deborah Snell! You might knock 
me down with a straw! And our Samuel, he’s gone 


WOODFORD IS SURPRISED. 99 


off; I always said he and that woman would fall out 
some time, dreadful.” 

Sings : 

“ O, what will the people in Pemaquid say 
If their golden idol is taken away ? 

I’ve said it once, and I say it again : 

He aint the least like the children of men : 

They talk in the Primer about Obadias, 

And two or three more of his kind, that was pious — 

But, la ! they warn’t nothing to our Parson Strong ; 

He’ll make a short cut into heaven ere long ! ” 

MRS. WOODFORD IS SURPRISED. 

After keeping the whole village in a ferment for 
three weeks, Mr. Strong has proclaimed that duty 
constrains him to remain here ! The man must be 
insane ! To refuse the most tempting offer, the most 
congenial field of labor and settle down here for life ! 
For my part I am disappointed. I hoped we should 
get a younger man, and one without his solemn views 
of life, which I think unnatural and unsound. And 
what he has done to make himself so beloved here I 
can not imagine. I met Mrs. Strong the other day, 
and she had the face to tell me she was glad her hus- 
band had decided to remain here ! As if she liked 
being the parish slave, doing housework, making all 
her own, her husband’s, and her children’s clothes ! 
Why, the way they live is pitiful ! They sleep in a 
deathly cold room, with two of the children in a 
trundle-bed, and one in a crib by Mrs. Strong’s side ; 


100 


FEMAQUID. 


if any of them are ailing in the night, she must get 
up and attend them in an actually freezing atmos- 
phere — the weather here is like Greenland. She has 
to get up at five o’clock in the morning and see about 
getting breakfast ; then the children are brought 
down and dressed by the kitchen fire, she being the 
nursery maid, and shivering herself with the cold. 
They make their coffee of parched peas, and in every 
department economize in the same way. She hasn’t 
had a new dress for three years, and Mr. Strong’s old 
camlet cloak looks as if it had been worn fifty. 

These, and a score of such items, I have learned 
through Frank Weston, with whom I am on the best 
of terms. I need somebody for a friend, for Mr. 
Woodford still holds aloof. He seems to vent on 
little children the affection I long to have him bestow 
on me. The other day I met him drawing one of the 
Strong babies on a little sled, the child having reins 
and a whip in its hand, and crying out to him to Get 
up, old horse ! 

He looked very much ashamed when he saw me, 
and got out of the way as quickly as possible. 

It is amazing that he does not see how I honor 
him, how I long for something more than this un- 
varying courtesy and cold civility. Did he love my 
predecessor, I wonder ? And is his heart in the grave 
with her ? Ah ! I envy her the sleep she is taking I 

Thanks to me — for nobody would have had entei^ 


MRS, WOODFORD IS SURPRISED, 101 


prise to get up the factory if I had not stirred them 
up to it — Pemaquid is thriving finely. Mr. Woodford 
is building a boarding-house for the factory girls ; two 
new stores are going up, and half a dozen houses. 
And, as if Mr. Strong was not overworked before, ho 
has undertaken to form a Bible-class for the girls and 
any one else who wants to attend; and Mrs. Strong 
came and asked me to join it ! I think I see myself 
saddled with anything new in religion ! It is just as 
much as I can stand to keep up a decent outside on 
Sundays. Last summer we had a most disastrous 
drought, and everything bid fair to be burned to a 
crisp. Of course the Church appointed a day of fast- 
ing and prayer, and Ruth, who was home for a short 
visit, went to it, carrying a huge umbrella ! Just fancy 
the Lord making it rain to suit Pemaquid ! What 
does He care for Pemaquid? But Pemaquid fasted, 
and Pemaquid humbled itself, and Pemaquid prayed, 
and lo ! just as the people were pouring out of the 
meeting-house, it began to rain, and everybody but 
Ruth and an old woman she waited upon home got 
wet to the skin. Now see their inconsistency ! They 
pray for rain, pretending they expect to gain some- 
thing by that operation, but prove that they did not 
expect anything by their surprise when rain appeared. 
For my part I think it is blasphemous to pray so much. 
Fancy the Lord caring whether farmer Jay’s potatoes 
dried up, or farmer Tobey's grass ! It isn’t likely He 
ever heard of either of them ! 


102 


PEMAQUin. 


As I said, Ruth came home. Deacon Chitcome, ol 
some such name, was coming this way, and her grand- 
mother sent her home to surprise her father, who had 
a regular Thanksgiving Day dinner got up, and sent 
for the Strongs and young Weston. The latter 
seemed not a little struck with Ruth, who, it must 
be owned, is a very pretty, quaint girl, who looks as 
if she had just stepped out of “ Watts’ and Select 
Hymn-Book.” Her father says, with rapture, that 
she. is just like her grandmother; and I should think 
they were just about of an age. I made it convenient 
for Mr. Woodford to take her back to Kittery Point 
in a few days, as Frank Weston might get fond of 
her, and interfere with my plans for Juliet. Once 
having seen her, this little Puritan will stand no sort 
of a chance. Still, it is to be hoped grandma’s 
precious life will long be spared ! 


ruth’s journal. 

It was so kind in grandma to let me go home and 
see father ! He can not come here as he used, for 
the factory takes a great deal of his time. Consider- 
ing all things, he looks pretty well. I missed Kezia 
more than I can tell. It is such a pity she went 
away, for all the girls go into the factory, and it is 
impossible to get good help in the kitchen. I made 
a great many nice things for them, and if it had been 
cold weather would have made enough to last a great 


RUTH'S JOURNAL. 


103 


while. But it rained so much after the day of fast- 
ing and prayer, that things got mouldy. 

I spent one day at the parsonage — for they’ve built 
a parsonage, and a real pretty one, too. Mr. and 
Mrs. Strong are just two saints. All they seem to 
care for is the Church, and what they can do for it. 
They are lovely to each other, and lovely to their 
children. Mrs. Strong has always loved me for my 
own mother’s sake, and she told me a great many 
beautiful things about her that she said I was not old 
enough to understand when I went away, more than 
five years ago. Take it all together, I had a pleasant 
visit at home. My new mother treats father as well 
as she knows how, and waits upon him and hangs 
round him as if she was trying to get him to notice 
her. But he doesn’t. I saw a little kitten try to get 
intimate with a very large black dog once. But he 
did not so much as see her. 


IX. 


■As poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet p'.)S 
sessing all things.” 

‘The Pilgrims they lived in a large upper chamber, facing the sun 
rising. The name of the chamber was Peace.” 


RUTIl’S JOURNAL. 


EAR grandma tried, as hard as she could, to pre- 



pare me for what she knew was coming. I came 
down one morning, trembling with the cold, and 
found Rachel had made the fire, and was busy at it. 
I have always made the fire myself, for Rachel is very 
old, and it would have been a shame to let her get up 
in the cold. 

“ Why, Rachel, what are you up for? I cried. 

“This is the fourth day of this horrid cold weather,” 
she said, “ and very hot and very cold weather is bad 
for the aged. They are apt to go off in one or the 
other.” 

I did not understand her. 

“You’d better go and set by grandma,” she said, 
" I think she’s took a change in the night. I mis- 
trusted it afore I went to bed, and I jist slep’ with 
one ear open.” 

I ran into grandma’s room, but didn’t see any 


( 104 ) 


RUTH^S JOURNAL, 


105 


change. She was lying there, sleeping like a baby, 
breathing softly» and smiling every now and then. 

Rachel came in with a cup of hot tea, but she 
couldn't rouse grandma to take it. 

‘‘Drink it yourself, poor child,” she said; “you’ll 
need it before the day’s out ; and I’ll run to the win- 
dow and see if there’s any one passing. It would be 
a comfort to see Father Andrews.” 

“ Oh, send for the doctor first ! ” I said. 

“We don’t want no doctors round; we want our 
minister. And don’t you take on so, child. It's 
enough to hender grandma’s passage into Paradise.” 

I grew still in a minute. Who was I that I should 
dare get in grandma’s way? 

At last Rachel saw a boy going past, and sent him 
for Father Andrews. 

“Tell him there’s no hurry,” I heard her say, “but 
to eat a hot breakfast afore he venters out.” 

She had to call out very loud, and the noise woke 
grandma up. We were in each other’s arms in a 
minute, and she told me how she loved me. 

And then she said, “ I got my invitation in the 
night. You’ll let me go, won’t you?” 

I thought her mind was wandering, and so I said : 

“You never go anywhere, grandma. Nobody has 
invited you anywhere.” 

She smiled and pointed upward. Then I knew’ 
And soon she fell sweetly asleep again. 

Father Andrews lives pretty near us. He came in, 


106 


PEMAQUID, 


a good deal out of bieath, and it took him a long 
time to get over it ; for he is ninety-three years old, 
and has been the minister here over sixty. 

I knew you'd want to see her once more,” said 
Rachel. 

“ Yes, yes,” he said. But I’m jealous of her ; she 
has outrun me, and will get into heaven first ; and I 
wouldn’t have thought that of her.” 

He took his cane and slowly made his way to 
grandma’s side. The tears rolled down his venerable 
face when he saw her. 

Then two of the old ladies who used to come and 
pray with her came in. They sat and held her hand, 
and now and then would say a text. All at once 
one of them asked me how soon my father would 
be here. 

My father ! I had not thought of him ! 

One of the neighbors, who had come in to see if 
we wanted help, offered to go for him. It was good 
sleighing, and the sun was up. Then all I prayed 
for was that she might live till he came, and know 
him. 

And she did. 

And then what a prayer Father Andrews made ! 
Why, he opened heaven for us, and let us see 
grandma going in, and smiling ! 

It is a long time since I have felt like writing here. 
Dear grandma has gone home, and I have come home. 


RUTH'S JOURNAL, 


10 ? 


What a difference! She was so glad to go that 1 
could not bear to ask God to keep her here for my 
sake and Rachel’s. Yet Rachel says she shall not 
know how to live without her. She has lived with 
her ever since I was born, and that is nearly twenty 
years. I think it would be very mean and cowardly 
in me to want to keep her out of heaven a single day 
because I was not willing to suffer the pain of part- 
ing from her. 

Still, the pain is very hard to bear, and if it was 
right I could spend my whole time crying and moan- 
ing, for it is just as if a mother had been snatched 
away. But I am determined to obey her just as ex- 
actly as if she could speak to me and tell me how to 
act, and to do that all my life long, even if I live to 
be eighty years old ; besides, there is a great deal to 
do. Nobody in this house knows how to prepare 
such food as my father has been used to ; there is a 
girl in the kitchen, to be sure ; but she is slovenly 
and ignorant, and I must do all the nice work myself; 
and I can, for Rachel has taught me all her ways. 
Rachel would have come home with me, but she is 
all worn out, and needs rest. 

Grandma has left her books to me. These are 
the »/orks of Hannah More, in eight volumes, “ Owen 
on the Holy Spirit” and on “ Spiritual-Mindedness,” 
Baxter’s “ Saint’s Everlasting Rest,” the “ Pilgrim’s 
Progress” and Taylor’s ‘‘Holy Living and Dying.” 
They are all such books as it is good for a weak and 


108 


PEMAQUID. 


ignorant girl like me to read over and over again, 
and it almost seems as if I could see dear grandma’s 
face, as I sit and read them by myself, as I have read 
them to her. 

I am too old to be slapped in the face now by Ju- 
liet or anybody else. But it stings worse to have 
such holy books laughed at and made fun of. It is 
like making fun of the Being I love and adore as I 
love nothing else. Poor mother! Poor Juliet! They 
know not what they do. 

MRS. WOODFORD. 

Juliet has finished her course at school and has 
come home, since which event I dare not say my 
soul is my own. It was more comfortable to have 
her away. She has ill-bred school-fellows come to 
visit her, and goes riding and driving round the coun- 
try with them, while it never seems to occur to her 
that any one else has any use for the horses. She 
and Frank Weston have become quite good friends, 
and it has occurred to me that if she marries him, 
as I rather think she intends to do, she will not 
need the ill-gotten sum I have laid up for her. I 
wish I had not put it into her power to touch it by 
giving her the sealed letter, to be opened in case of 
my death. It would have been wiser to confide my 
secret to Mr. Woodford, should he outlive me. But 
it is not likely that he will. If goodness entitles a 


MRS, WOODFORD. 


109 


man to a passport for heaven, he may go there any 
day. 

A messenger has just come to summon him to Kit- 
tery Point. He took time, before he went, to send 
this message to the conference meeting : 

“Aaron Woodford requests the prayers of this 
church for his mother, lying very weak and low, that 
she may be restored to health, or, if not, prepared for 
all God’s will and pleasure.” 

If she dies I suppose Ruth will come home. Well, 
she is a harmless creature, is handy with her needle, 
makes delicious things for the table, and on the 
whole it will be rather a convenience to have her 
around. 

Ruth has come home. She is a very pretty girl, 
with her father’s fresh complexion, smooth, white fore- 
head, and honest, kindly blue eyes. Her hair has not 
an angular line in it, but waves and curls gracefully 
about her head. The contrast between her and Ju- 
liet is almost ludicrous. 

On Sunday, just before we rose for the long prayer, 
what were my sensations on hearii'g these words 
read from the pulpit : 

“ Aaron Woodford and his wife desire your prayers 
that the death of their mother may be sanctified to 
them for their spiritual and everlasting good ; ” aftei 
which followed one from Ruth, to much the same effect. 


110 


PEMAQUID, 


The time has been that this would have driven me 
out of the meetinpj-house in a rage. As it is, I can 
not afford to insult Mr. Woodford. But how I felt, 
standing shivering through a whole hour of “long 
prayer,” and Mr. Strong piling up petitions for me to 
a heaven I do not more than half believe in! Juliet 
fairly giggled aloud, “ Their mother, indeed 1 ” And 
yet, such are the contradictions of human nature, 
there was a mixture of sweetness in the words. 

JULIET WRITES TO HER FRIEND IN BOSTON. 
Since you went home I have had all sorts of times 
with Frank. In the first place, Ruth Woodford’s 
“ grandma ” must needs go and die, and she has 
come home and quartered herself in Samuel’s room. 
She’s just such a girl as I cajit endure. When we 
were young ones she’d let me slap her in the face, 
and pull her hair, and any other little pastimes of the 
sort. She is just as mean-spirited still. The other 
day I went to get her to hook my dress, and there 
she was arranging a set of old musty books, left her 
by her grandmother, in a little pine bookcase she had 
just had made. I took down volume after volume, 
and read paragraphs here and there, which I made 
sound perfectly ridiculous. 

“ Do you pretend that you like these solemn old 
divines ? ” I asked her, at last 

“Like them?” she asked. “Yes, and love them 
too.” 


JULIET WRITES TO HER FRIEND, 111 


“And you believe in prayer-meetings and fast- 
days, and all such nonsense ? 

“Juliet, I do not try to wound and hurt you ; then 
why do you come and try to wound me? “ she cried 
out. . 

“ Because I hate religion the way it’s thrust on one 
here at Pemaquid. I hate it, I say ! ” 

“ You have a right to hate it, I suppose,” she said, 
“ and I have rights, too. I have the right to leave 
the room, and shall take it now.” 

So off she marched, and I took the opportunity to 
act the spy in her apartment. In the first place, it 
seems she has a fire. Then I shall have one in my 
room. In the second place, she has got stored away 
in a box an old faded flower or two, so it is plain she 
is in love with some Kittery Point swain. In the 
third place, she keeps a journal ; and I have read 
some holy twaddle in it, but find no mention of the 
swain. And now to sum up her crimes in one. 
Frank walked home from meeting with her last Sun- 
day night, though he knew all I went for was to see 
him ! Don’t you wish her joy of the life I am going 
to lead her? 

I flirted desperately with Josiah Stone, who did 
me the honor to escort me home. I did not seem to 
observe it, but sang hymns with Ruth. The girl is a 
perfect biauty. But she’s deep. She knows how to 
get at the best side of Frank, and between us both I 
imagine he is half distracted. It is my opinion that 


£12 


PEMAQUID. 


he’d like to marry Ruth on Sundays and fast-days, 
and have me week-days. Well, burn this letter up; 
theie’s a dear, and I’ll do as much for you. 


MRS. WOODFORD. 

The throat distemper is raging here in perfect fury, 
and in all the region round about. A public fast was 
therefore ordained, but very few were present. The 
women have their hands full taking care of the sick, 
and the men are doing the housework their wives have 
no time to attend to. The children are dying off at 
the rate of three or four to a family. I stirred up the 
people to buy a bell, but I never would have done it 
if I had foreseen these dreadful times. Its dismal 
toll falls on the ear every few hours, ringing out the 
age of the departed. Juliet is half wild with terror. 
She will not enter a house or see any one who 
comes here, lest she should take the infection. News 
has come that one hundred children have died in an 
adjacent parish. One old man, aged ninety-nine, 
has died here. Nothing could be more forlorn than 
the ninety-nine strokes of the bell. 

Juliet has just come to say that stay here she can’t 
and won’t. 

Do you mean to leave the field to Ruth then ? ’ 
I ask. 

» What field ? ” 


“ Frank Weston, to be sure.” 


MRS. WOODFORD. 


113 


** Do you suppose he would look at that little chit 
after he had seen ME ? ” 

Well, where are you going? ” 

“ To Boston ; to some of the girls at Boston.’* 

“ And suppose I have the distemper while you arc 
gone ? ” 

Why, I suppose Pa Woodford and Ruth would 
see you through it. I wouldn’t do it for the world ! ” 

“ But I might not survive it, you know.” 

“ Oh, yes, you would. You are not fit to die.” 

“ Neither are you.” 

“ I know it ; and that’s the reason I’m going to 
beat a retreat. And I must have some money right 
away.” 

There was no use in arguing with her, so I reluc- 
tantly gave her the money, and she is to start in the 
stage as soon as she can get ready. 

Ruth says Mr. Strong is wearing himself out with 
going round and praying with the dying. 

I said I thought it very wrong to expose his own 
family in that way. If he must pray, couldn’t he do 
it at home? She said she did not think it was the 
same thing. 

Frank Weston walked home from meeting with 
Ruth last night, and said he had stopped on his way 
for the doctor, as Mrs. Strong was not well. 

“ If she has the distemper tell her I will come and 
take care of the children,” said Ruth. 


114 


PEMAQUID, 


** You will do no such thing! ” I cried. 

“ I certainly shall,” she said, turning upon me a 
look I had never seen on her face before. 

Juliet was afraid to come down, but she leaned 
over the banisters and held a bantering dialogue with 
Frank from that retreat. 

If theyVe got the distemper at the Strongs you’ll 
be catching it next. Don’t come here if you do, for 
pity’s sake.” 

“ It is the last place I should come to,” he said with 
some contempt. If I find Mrs. Strong too sick to 
take care of herself I will come back for you, Ruth.” 

So it’s Ruth already, is it? 

“ She sha’n’t go,” cried Juliet, “ she’ll bring the hor- 
rid disease to us.” 

I shall go,” said Ruth. I am no longer a child. 
What is the use of being a strong and healthy young 
woman if I am not to nurse the sick ? ” 

We had hardly got to bed when Frank returned. 
Ruth opened her window. He said she was needed 
at the Strongs. I begged Mr. Woodford to forbid 
her going, since she was so headstrong and would net 
obey me. He said somebody must go, and why not 
Ruth? Somebody’s daughter must go, why not his? 
He got up and dressed, harnessed the sleigh, which 
he piled up with provisions, and drove off. I made 
him promise not to go into the house, and Juliet 
and I snuffed up hot vinegar till he came back. He 


KEZIA RECEIVES ANOTHER LETTER, 116 


reported Mrs. Strong as very sick with the distempet 
and two of the children as ailing. 

Ruth was going to sit up all night. She had her 
Bib’e and her “ Saint’s Everlasting Rest to keep her 
company. 

KEZIA MILLET RECEIVES ANOTHER LETTER FROM 
PEMAQUID. 

Oh, mother, help me pack my trunk right away! 
They’ve got the distemper down to Pemaquid, and 
our Ruth’s gone right into it, and the Squire, he’s 
down with it, and I’m a-goin’ right down to nuss him. 
Aint it lucky you didn’t want to have no numb palsy, 
and air as spry as a gal, and don’t need me to home ? 
Oh, the Squire ! That blessed man 1 He sha’n’t die 
for want o’ nussing ! Aint I afraid of catching it my- 
self? No, I aint a mite afraid of catching it myself. 

But s’pose I do ? I aint afraid to die, mother. I 
know I’m a poor, sinful creetur, but there’s One 
standin’ in my place that never sinned and the Judge 
wont never think of old Keziey Millet when He sees 
His lovely face, and so I’d jist slip in at the gate un- 
beknojvnt. 

PACKS HER TRUNK AND SINGS. 

Though mountings fall and seas are dry, 

I never will my Lord deny ; 

The pestilence may walk at night, 

But He will make my midnight bright ; 

My duty I'm resolved to do. 

And He will see me safely through ; 


FEMAQUID. 


I’ll nuss the blessed Squire, he. 

And even that Mis' Woodford, she. 

Put up some currant jelly, mother I 
That aint the jar ! I meant the other 1 
And you’re a master-hand at prayer. 

So pray for me while I am there, 

That I consistent may remain 
And never slip and fall again. 

And suffer such a dreadful pain. 


X. 


** There is no peace, saith my God, for the wicked.** 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

A FEW days after Ruth went away Juliet rushed 
into my room, with a white face, and the an- 
nouncement that she had the distemper. 

“ It’s all Ruth’s fault,” she said. “ If she had stayed 
at home, and helped me to do my sewing, I should 
have got away from this abominable hole.” 

I had hardly got her into bed when Mr. Woodford 
came in, and said he thought he was going to be sick 
too. 

I felt as if I should drop. What was I to do be- 
tween them both ? At first he would not go to bed, 
but insisted on helping me in the care of Juliet, whose 
malady was greatly aggravated by her alarm. But 
at last he had to yield to the fearful exhaustion that 
accompanies this disease. My heart died within me. 
What if I should fall sick with it myself? What if I 
should take it and die ? 

The thought made me shudder ! I have a dread of 
death beyond compare. 

The Bible says something comes after death ; I be- 
lieve it is judgment. 

(U7) 


118 


FEMAQUID. 


In two days I was nearly worn out with running 
back and forth between the two rooms. For among 
friends who would rally round the Squire in this 
emergency, there was not one who did not have his 
or her hands full, the malady was so wide-spread. As 
to money, there was not enough in all Pemaquid to 
induce hirelings to venture into an infested house ; 
and no wonder. 

What, then, was my relief when Kezia Millet came 
rushing in, caught up the reins where she had let 
them drop, and became mistress of the house. Her 
energy, her strength, her tact and skill, her perfect 
fearlessness of the disease, made her presence in- 
valuable. 

‘‘Were you never afraid to die, Kezia?” I asked 
her, one day. ^ 

“ La, yes, when I was a poor, unconverted creetur 
like you be,” she said. 

“ What is being converted ? ” 

“ Why, it’s turnin’ right round, and bein’ jist as 
different from what you was before as can be. Here, 
Squire, you drink this ’ere raspberry syrup right 
down. It’s the best thing for the throat there is.” 

“ I would give anything not to fear death.” 

“ Massy sakes alive ! ’Taint givin\ It’s takin' ' 

“ Taking what ? ” 

“ Why, what the Lord gives you.” 

“ I don’t understand.” 

“ No, of course } ou don’t. Eveiything’s got to be 


MRS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 


119 


learnt. It aint jist having ingredientses that’ll make 
a mince-pie. It’s gettin’ the right proportionses ; a 
little beef here, and a little suet there ; jist enough 
apple and jist enough raisins, and jist so much spice. 
Now, Christians is different. One’ll be all beef, and 
another all suet, and another all raisins ; but ’twon’t 
do. They oughter learn the proportionses.” 

Now how was I going to make anything out of 
this jargon. 

And yet I could endure her homely talk better 
than I could Mr. Strong’s pious prayers, or the old 
deacon’s solemn discourses and talk about revivals. 1 
wonder what a revival is, anyhow. If I could get re- 
ligion enough to take away my harassing fear of death, 
I think I should be glad to do it. But I do not know 
how. 

“ Kezia,” I began again, “ suppose you should catch 
the disease, and die?” 

Well, suppose I should? Mother can take care 
of herself now, and when she gets old and beat out 
she can go to live to my brother’s at Bethel. My 
brother has got the cutest little wife you ever see.” 

But I was not asking about your mother. I was 
asking about you.” 

“ Oh, me ? Why, I should go to heaven.” 

“ You couldn’t know that.” 

“ Yes, I could. Why, even Job knew, and Christ 
hadn’t come in his day. And it’^ hard if we can’t 
know in our’n.” 


120 


PEMAQUID. 


I had been away too long from Juliet, and now re- 
turned to her. I found her very fretful and fractious, 
and displeased at being left alone. 

‘‘Pa Woodford has got Kezia,’* she said, “and 
what does he want of you ? ” 

“ I don’t suppose he wants anything of me ; but I 
want a great deal from him. It would nearly kill me 
to lose him.” 

“ That’s the greatest joke I ever heard in my life ! 
I suppose you’ll say you love him next, and will call 
him dear Aaron ! ” 

“Juliet, you are enough to drive me wild. Why 
don’t you fix your mind on the danger you are in ? ” 

“Danger? Danger of what? Who says I’m in 
danger? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why 
didn’t you bring me up better ? Mothei, is there such 
a place as hell f ” 

“ I don’t know. I hope not. I brought you up as 
well as I knew how. And as to the danger, you are 
not nearly so sick as Mr. Woodford ; not nearly. 
But everybody is in danger who has this horrid dis- 
ease.” 

“ I tell you what it is, mother — if I die, and am lost 
forever, it will be your fault, and you’ll have the com- 
fort of remembering it after I’m gone. It’s the 
mother’s fault when their children go astray. Oh dear ! 
Oh dear me ! How sick I am ! ” 

Just then the doctor came into the house, stamp- 
ing the snow off his feet, and making noise enough 


MRS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 


121 


to wake the dead. For all that he is a great favorite 
of mine. Running over with health, vivacity, and 
kind-heartedness, he is quite the opposite of his 
gloomy partner, who attended the Squire at one time, 
and pretended that he could not live a week. 

He rushed into the sick-room now, bustling, laugh- 
ing, hopeful, and bringing in pure breezes from without. 

“ Well, Aaron, how are you? Hi! what are you 
shaking your head for? How dare you shake your 
head ? Do you pretend to say you are not ten per 
cent, better than you was last night ? ” 

“ I do not realize that I am. I have no vigor.’' 

Vigor! Vigor! Well, who expects vigor on a 
sick-bed ? I am ashamed of you. Have you taken 
your nourishment regular?” 

‘‘ I had no appetite. I have declined food.” 

‘‘ Kezia Millet, hand me that gruel. Did you bile 
raisins in it, as I told you ? Here, Squire, open your 
mouth while I pour a pint of these slops into you.” 

“ You act as if the Squire was a hay-mow, and you 
was a-pitchin’ in hay,” quoth Kezia. 

“ Hand me my bag and hold your tongue while I 
m.ake up some powders. I’m going to give him a 
good dose of calomel and jalop. Wish I’d done it 
sooner. How’s the girl, Mrs. Woodford ?” 

I told him she was very restless and nervous, and 
took him to see her. 

Doctor, tell me the truth,” she said, ‘‘ am I ver> 
Bick-” 


6 


122 


FEMAQUID. 


“ How can I tell before IVe seen your throat ? 
Hand me a spoon, Mrs. Woodford. Well, your throat 
is pretty bad, but we’ll pull you through, we’ll pull 
you through.” 

Juliet threw upon me a reproachful look. 

“ Mother frightened me nearly to death,” she said. 

‘‘ What is there to be frightened about ? What’s 
death ? Why, it’s the beginning of all that is good. 
Still, it’s my business to keep people alive, and I 
shall stick to my business and pull you through.” 

I followed him out with imploring looks. 

“ Well,” he said, “ they’re both bad cases ; very bad. 
I can’t say how they’ll turn out. And as to the 
Squire, it does not matter. He’s been two-thirds in 
heaven many a long year. And as to the girl, it aint 
for me to be her judge, nor yours either. Keep up 
their spirits, anyhow. Take pattern by me. I never 
carry such a face as yours into a sick-room.” 

I went out into the kitchen. I knew there was no- 
body there. Our girl had left us in afright. There 
was a good fire on the hearth, and a kettle boiling on 
the crane. Kezia had got everything under way for 
dinner. I lay dewn on the cold floor, that shone 
with yellow paint and cleanliness, and wished I were 
dead They w^/e all I had, and both bad cases 
very bad ! 

Bat I heard Juliet shrieking from her room, and 
had to go to her. 

She wanted her pillow shaken up; she wanted 


MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 123 

water ; she wanted gruel without those nasty raisins 
in it. I went to make the gruel, and met Kezia in 
the kitchen. 

“ Don't you be so down-hearted, Mis’ Woodford,” 
she said ; our doctor is an experienced old man, and 
knows what he’s about. He’ll have to pull pretty 
hard to keep the Squire out o’ Paradise, but, la ! your 
Juliet aint drawed that way!” 

I heard J uliet calling again, and hastened to her side. 

“You keep leaving me alone,” she whined. “I 
don’t dare to be alone a minute. Why does not 
Ruth come home and help take care of me ? There’s 
plenty of other people in the parish to take care of 
the Strongs.” 

“ So there are ; I will send for her. But she will 
not come.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ What sort of treatment has she had from you ? ” 

She made no reply. I wrote a hasty note to Ruth, 
telling her of our sore trouble, and asking her to 
come to our relief. 

“ Well, now, it’s a sight I never expected to see ! ” 
cried Kezia, “and it’s a sight good for sore eyes. 
You’ve went and wrote a note asking for the prayers 
of the Church.; now haven’t yer? ” 

“/ask for the prayers of the Church! ” I exclaim- 
ed. “ You are out of your senses, Kezia.” 

“Worse luck for you, then,” she said, and went 
back to Mr. Woodford. 


124 


PEMAQUID. 


To be sure, there was this one last faint hope. But 
after my sneers at such resorts, could I humble 
myself to seek it now ? 

I sent off my note to Ruth and sat down by Juliet. 
She was very restless, though sleeping, and often 
cried out aloud. Then I would waken her and ask 
why she cried. She made no answer, and would 
sleep again. The short winter’s day was growing 
gray ; I sat in the gathering darkness, fighting with 
myself. Kezia came in noiselessly. 

‘‘ I don’t like the looks of the Squire, ' she whis- 
pered. ** Come and see what you think.’ 

I followed her, and she held the candle so as to let 
me see the worn, exhausted face. He, too, was 
asleep, or dead, it was hard to tell which. 

As we stood there the doctor came in. After 
examining his patient he turned, without a word, 
to Juliet’s bedside. That, too, he left in silence. 

“ I have done all I can for them. They are in 
God’s hands. He can save them, even now.” 

I told him I had sent for Ruth. 

“ She can’t come,” he said. “ It’s hard for her, but 
she can’t come. Those little Strongs won’t take any- 
thing except from her ; their mother is very low and 
so are they ; their only chance of living is in her being 
there. Mrs. Strong has a very peculiar feeling to- 
ward Ruth ; she thinks she is Love Woodford, come 
back from heav^en to take care of her. I’ll look in 


MliS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 


125 


again about nine o’clock this evening. Put youf 
trust in God, ma’am.” 

It might not do any good to ask for the prayers of 
the Church. But it could not do any harm, except 
to my pride. And was this a time to nourish that ? 
I wrote the note and sent it. Yet for Mr. Woodford 
there was no need to ask the prayers of the Church 
that loved him to a man. 

When the doctor came in the evening, he brought 
Ruth with him to give her father a parting kiss. She 
then went to Juliet’s room, and kissed her on the 
forehead. She looked worn and weary, and crept 
silently away to the parsonage. 

It was a keen, wintry night, and the moonlight lay 
all over the snow. Our patients slept on. Kezia, 
exhausted with fatigue and grief, slept in her chair. 
Never had I felt so lonely in my life. Hour after 
hour dragged on ; I stole from one sick-room to an- 
other, gave drops as directed, and watched for the 
day. It began early. I heard the man open the barn- 
doors and bring the cattle out for water ; then the 
poultry flew down from their roosts, and their clear, 
loud voices proclaimed that with them all was well ; 
then dogs began to bark ; then came the sound of 
distant sleigh-bells. And as daylight dawned, the 
solemn bell in the church steeple began to toll. I 
counted : one, two, three, four; some little child dead. 
How many times would it toll for Juliet? how many 
for my husband ? Kezia awoke refreshed. She went 


126 FEMAQUin. 

down to the kitchen and made coffee, and brought 
me some. 

At last the bells began to ring for the morning 
service. I heard the sleighs go by ; the bell tolled ; 
the last sleigh load had gone into the house of God : 
soon the church will stand up and pray. I looked at 
my two patients — they were both living. 

Now the church is praying — praying for us, I said 
to myself. If their prayers prevail I shall believe 
in God,” I said aloud. 

“ They will prevail,” said Kezia. But it may not 
be in a way to suit us. God knows a great many 
things we don’t. He may see that it’s best for you 
to be chastised. He may take that poor girl of yours 
away, to keep her from breaking your heart.” 

The doctor came in quietly, and examined his 
patients with great care. 

While there’s life there’s hope,” he said. 

I asked what child had died that morning. 

It was little Woodford Strong,” he said. “The 
Squire’s namesake.” 

“ How are the others?” 

“ Going, too.” 

“ What, Mrs. Strong, and all ? ” 

“ No, only the children.” 

“ It will kill the Strongs to lose all their children.” 

“ No, it will not. It will change this world to them 
forever, but it will not kill them. They may be 
brought low, but God will help them.” 


MI^S. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL, 127 


At noon the bell began to toll again. 

I counted as before. One, two, three. Anolhef 
of the Strongs. 

And yet again : one, two, three, four, five, six, seven : 
Love Woodford Strong. I heard afterward that her 
father was praying with her when she went. 

I want something to eat,” said Juliet. It was as 
a voice from the dead. I gave her gruel with wine, 
and she fell asleep again, but cried out no more. 

I went to look at my husband. 

He was awake and conscious. Kezia was crying 
for joy. He looked at me and spoke. I could not 
understand what he said. 

But it was no matter; he was alive. 

Convalescence was rapid in both cases, but there 
was more to do for them than when they were in 
most danger. Ruth came home and relieved us in 
our cares. She was as devoted to Juliet as to her 
father; bearing with her whims with extreme pa 
tience, and inventing numberless ways of diverting 
her in the tedious hours of confinement to her room. 
Juliet did not realize that her life had been in 
danger; her illness, therefore, had no moral effect. 
She was eager to get out, to see her friends, to take 
sleigh rides, to amuse herself as she had been wont 
to do. 

Mr. Woodford sat patiently in his chair by the 
fire; Ruth read aloud to him from some of her 
choice books ; Kezia put the disordered house to 


128 


PEMAQUID, 


rights, made marvels of good things for our invalids, 
and I thought I had at last found rest. 

For of course I never meant to part again from 
the faithful, excellent creature, whose value I never 
knew till I had lost her. What annoyance I have 
.suffered in my kitchen during her absence! What 
waste and destruction have gone on there ! 


XI. 


** Ah, if you knew what peace there is in an accepted sorrow f * 
RUTH’S JOURNAL. 

1 WAS at the parsonage four weeks. I can hardly 
keep from crying when I think how patiently Mr. 
and Mrs. Strong bear their grief. It will be some- 
thing to remember all my life. 

All their dear little children are gone. Mrs. Strong 
was near death, too, and so were my father and 
Juliet. The parish got together and prayed for us 
all in our agony. And my father and Mrs. Strong 
and Juliet are getting well. But for some reason — 1 
can’t see any^ but God can — the little ones died. 
And Rachels are weeping all over the village. In 
every house, almost, there is one dead ; in some 
houses three, in some four. 

Mr. Strong seems to forget his own grief in his 
sympathy for his people. He goes from house to 
house praying with the sick and with the afflicted, 
and on Sunday he preached to the mourners. 

I was not there, as I was needed at home, but I 
have had the privilege of reading the sermon and of 
copying part of it. 

He says: “ As far as my experience goes, attempts 
6* (129) 


130 


PEMAQUID. 


at human consolation are a solemn mockery. I may 
tell you that your children were, perhaps, taken from 
evil to come. But is a mother’s aching heart to be 
healed by a perhaps? You may tell me that my 
children would, peradventure, have grown up to evil 
courses, from which God snatched them in their in- 
nocent childhood. But in this awful hour away with 
peradventures ! What you want, what I want, is a 
Reality, yea, a Personality, which, as it looms up in 
the misty distance, we may descry in the storm, * 
toward which we may make our way in our disman- 
tled ships, on which we may cast anchor, to do battle 
with the uncertain waves no more. 

“ It is to our God we must look when we have taken 
our last look at the faces we loved ; it is on His sov- 
ereign, holy, infallible will that we must plant our 
stumbling, bewildered feet. Ten thousand reasons 
we could not understand, should He stoop to explain 
them, guide His infinite mind ; He knows why He 
spares this life, why He takes that. He is not an ar- 
bitrary Sovereign, laughing at our calamity; He is 
our loving, sympathizing Father, who grieves that He 
must chasten us — our sympathizing Redeerher, who 
weeps with us when we weep, and is afflicted in all our 
afflictions. So, then, faith, faith, faith in this living, 
personal God, is our stronghold in this day, when but 
for Him we should be swept away on a midnight sea. 

“ But Faith goes sometimes in another garb, and 
with another name. 


RUTH'S JO URN- A L. 


131 


“Perhaps the weeping mothers I see before me 
know it best when it is called love. 

“ Yes, my dear friends, gej love into your hearts; 
a new, tender, absorbing, personal love to Christ, and 
see if He does not become more to you in His gra- 
cious response than the most devoted child, yea, than 
a thousand children could be. If I could see this 
church filled with ardent lovers of my Master, as the 
fruit of my own share in our calamity, how would I 
sing songs in this house of my pilgrimage ; what a 
small price have I paid if it buys you this freedom ! 

“Another word before I close. 

“ More than one distracted mother has been racked 
with needless terror about the possible fate of the 
little ones who have gone from her into an unknown 
future. 

“ Who led these little lambs away from their em- 
brace? The king of terrors? The devil and his an- 
gels ? A hundred times. No ! They went away in 
the arms of the Good Shepherd, with the Redeemer 
who, for their sakes, once knew infancy and childhood 
as helpless as theirs. Never were they so safe, so 
sheltered, so cared for, so happy, as now. They are 
in green pastures and beside still waters ; they drink, 
earlier than we, of the river of life ; they have put on 
immortality before mortality had saddened or crippled 
them. We fancy that they are dead and that we are 
alive ; nay, it is we who die ; it is they who have be- 
gun to live I 


132 


PEMAQUID. 


** And yet, and yet ! — we are human beings and oui 
hearts are rent with human pain. We have no sub- 
lime power to give up our children because it is well 
with them. 

We may weep, we must weep over the vanished 
forms of our beloved. Yea, as long as we tarry on 
this earth, we may cherish their memories in a sacred 
sorrow with which no stranger may intermeddle. 
And -^e shall have need of patience, as the long days 
come and go, and the pangs so remorselessly pulling 
at our heart-strings ; but oh, my brethren, anything 
but evil questions as to the doings of our Lord ! ” 

As he uttered these words his brave soul gave way 
and he fell back in a fainting fit. Men and women 
wailed aloud ; the old deacon and the doctor were in 
the pulpit in a minute, and when he revived a little 
they and the sexton and another man carried him out 
through the people all standing and weeping. 

I feel greatly condemned at the way I have taken 
grandma’s death. 

I did not bear my sorrow in faith, or love, or pa- 
tience. May God forgive me ! 

MRS. WOODFORD. 

We have not yet told Mr. Woodford or Juliet how 
many deaths there have been here. They are not 
yet strong enough to bear excitement. 

T must have been out of my mind when I sent a 
request for the prayers of the church. Of course 


MRS. WOODFORD. 


133 


only superstition believes in such absurdity. Prayers 
were offered for the Strong children, but they died. 

In fact, prayers were offered for all who died. Yet it 
made no difference. And “ Old Man Boody,” as 
they call him, wouldn’t ask for prayers, and he got 
well. 

I said all this to Kezia, who took great offense, as 
if I had done something personally obnoxious to her. 

“You and me never’ll agree until you meet with a 
change,” she said. 

“What do you mean by meeting with a change?” 

“ What everybody means that uses them words. I 
mean till you’ve had a change of heart. And Ruth’s 
come home now, and I’m a-going back to mother. * 
I can live consistent when I’m along of mother, 
’cause she’s a good, pious woman that believes in 
prayin’ and readin’ the Bible and keepin’ the Sabbath 
day.” 

“ But, Kezia, we can’t do without you. Besides, I 
certainly do not aggravate you as I used to do.” 

“ No, you don’t. I’ll say that for you. But the 
change is all on the outsidb. Your heart aint a mite 
better than it was when you came a-prowlin ’round 
the poor Squire, and courted him jest to git a home.” 

“ But, Kezia,” I said, “ do you know you are the 
most intolerant person I ever met ? ” 

“ If I’m intolerable, what makes you tr>' to coax 
me to stay, then ? ” 

“ I did not say intolerable. I said intolerant. That 


134 


FEMAQUID, 


means that you insist on everybody’s looking at 
things exactly as you do.” 

“ If you mean things in the Bible, then I s’pose 1 
be intolerable. Mis' Woodford, she brought me up 
from a child, and she ground the truth into me, as 
you might say. And I can’t stand it to live with 
folks that despise religion. If you’d pave my kitchen 
with yaller gold, and then come into it to sneer at 
good people, I wouldn’t stay in it a day. I’m a poor, 
sinful creetur, but I’ve got feelin’s, and my feelin’s is 
hurt awful when you say you don’t believe in prayin’, 
because that’s just the same as sayin’ you don’t be- 
lieve in God. And that right on top of His sparin’ 
your husband and your girl ! Something wuss than 
having ’em die will happen to one or both on ’em if 
you make light of the mercy that healed ’em. 

“ O, Mis’ Woodford, I did hope so that you’d show 
some gratitude for what has been done for you ! 

“ Well, I don’t mean no harm, and I wish you 
well, and I’ll go home, and me and mother will pray 
for your poor soul day and night. You don’t know 
what you’re cheatin’ yourself out of, but we do. 
And I’m awful sorry for you ; awful. But it’s my 
opinion you’ll get religion yet.” 

“ We’ll raise your wages as high as you please ; 
only stay. I have had no peace in the kitchen since 
you left.” 

“ Do you think to stifle my conscience with wages * 
No, no, I must go home to mother. I can’t stand it tc 


MR. AND MRS. STRONG CONFER. 136 


hear my Lord despised and His prayin’ people de-i 
spised ; I love Him a hundred times more than you 
have money; and I love them that love Him a hun- 
dred times more than you love that girl of your'n. 
And I couldn’t stand such another fight with the 
devil as I had when I left here before ; an’ I wouldn’t 
if I could.” 

“ You must be a very weak Christian if you are so 
easily tempted.” 

“ So I be ! I never pretended I wasn’t. I’m as 
weak in my soul as I’m strong in my body. And I’m 
a-goin’ home to mother.” 

MR. AND MRS. STRONG CONFER TOGETHER. 

** I’ve been thinking, dear, how to spend the time 
I have on my hands, which I used to spend on our 
children. And it has come to me that now we can 
have your good old father come and live with us. 
I think I could make his last days happy ; and, be- 
sides, you would enjoy having him here.” 

Thank you, my dear, I should. Though his 
preaching days are over, his praying days are not, and 
he would bring a blessing with him.” 

‘‘You and I could move up-stairs and give him our 
room. I think I should like to move up-stairs. Not 
that I should forget the children any more there than 
here ; but it would be a trifle easier when I wake in 
the morning to be in a different room.” 

^‘He could not bear the journey in this severe 


136 


PEMAQUin. 


weather. We shall have to wait until spring. But 
we can move up-stairs, my dear wife, if it will be of 
the least relief to you.” 

“ Perhaps it is childish in me to wish it. Still, 1 
should like the occupation of fitting up your father’s 
room right away. There is a chair in the garret I 
could stuff and cover for him. And I shall think of 
other little comforts. There, don’t look at me as if 
you thought I was an angel. I am doing it all out 
of selfishness, because I must have something to do.” 

Something to do, when you have my whole parish 
in your heart and on your shoulders? Oh, Faith, 
precious little wife, how merciful was God when He 
spared you to me ! ” 

“ And He might have taken you from me ! Surely, 
goodness and mercy have followed us all our days ! ” 

MRS. WOODFORD. 

Kezia has gone, headstrong, narrow-minded creat- 
ure that she is ! And as to finding anybody to fill 
her place, it is simply impossible. Fortunately, Mr. 
Woodford and Juliet are well enough now to take 
care of themselves, and Ruth has time to do the 
work our ignorant slattern in the kitchen is incapable 
of. 

Juliet is in the state people are apt to be in when 
recovering — peevish, exacting, and unreasonable. I 
thought that hearing of what others are suffering in 
this village might tend to make her forget herself. I 


MRS. WOOnFORR. 


137 


had already told Mr. Woodford about the Strongs 
and now told her. 

I ought to have taken the precaution, knowing 
how thoughtless she is, to have communicated what 
I had to say in Mr. Woodford’s absence, and not let 
her appear to him as utterly heartless as she did. 

“Juliet,” I began, “ you make more ado about your 
little physical discomforts than poor Mrs. Strong does 
about her terrible affliction.” 

“ What affliction ? ” 

“ All three of her children died when you were so 
sick.” 

“You don’t say so! Well, why should she make 
an ado ? They were all little things ! And they had 
such a housefull 1 And there was just nothing to 
bring them up with. Susan Stone says that one 
night, when Mrs. Strong was sick, her mother was 
there, and poured out tea for Mr. Strong ; and he 
had it sweetened with molasses ! ” 

“You know that is not true,” I said, seeing Mr. 
Woodford listening from behind his book. “You 
know better than to repeat such nonsense.” 

“ Indeed it is true,” she maintained ; “ for Mrs. 
Stone was pouring in the molasses, and he checked 
her, saying, ‘ That’ll do, Mrs. Stone,’ and she kept on 
pouring it in, saying, ‘ Dear me ! if it was all molasses 
it wouldn’t be none too good for you I ’ I know I al- 
most died a-laughing, Susan Stone told it in such a 
droll way.” 


138 


PEMAQUID. 


** There is not a word of truth in that story,” said 
Mr. Woodford, taking off his spectacles and looking 
as severely at Juliet as he knew how. “The more 
shame to the parish if it were. You misunderstood 
Susan Stone.” 

“ Well, it was some minister, I know, and I thought 
it was Mr. Strong. It doesn't make much difference. 
All ministers are poor. I would not marry one if he 
was the last man on earth. And Susan Stone said 
that Father Stephens had to work so hard on his 
farm to make out a living that before he went to 
General Conference he had his hands poulticed to 
take off the tan ! ” 

Mr. Woodford took a paper from his pocket-book 
and began to write. 

With my mind's eye I could read what he wrote. 
And it was this, or something like it : 

“ Mem . — Send six loaves loaf-sugar to Mr. Strong. 

“ Also, one half-barrel brown sugar. 

“ Send Father Stephens money to hire a man. He 
is too old to labor with his hands. 

“ Make inquiries about other needy ministers.” 

Meanwhile I gave Juliet a warning look. 

“ It jars on one to hear you giggling so, and think- 
ing nothing of Mr. Strong's loss.” . 

“ I suppose she will think it a loss. For my part, 
1 should imagine she'd be glad to thin out a little 
How she used to dress them ! She had to sit up half 


MRS, WOODFORD, 


139 


the night to do her sewing. Faugh ! before I’d marry 
a minister ! ” 

“ Perhaps you are not aware,” remarked Mr. Wood- 
ford, “ that Frank Weston intends to study theology 
as soon as he has earned the means.” 

Juliet colored high with surprise and incredulity. 

“ I don’t believe a word about it ! ” she cried. “ I 
shall just ask him when I see him ! ” 

I gave her another warning look. Ruth came in, 
bearing a tray with the dinner of the invalids. 

“ What is this story about Frank Weston’s study- 
ing theology? you been putting him up to it, 

Ruth Woodford?” 

“ I ? No, indeed. It was all settled before he came 
here.” 

Oh, you are in his secrets then ? ” 

I never heard of it as a secret. It was frequently 
spoken of at the parsonage as an understood thing.” 

I suppose you saw a great deal of him while you 
were at the parsonage ? ” 

“ No, very little. I was too busy.” 

I said I had been telling Juliet about the children. 

“ Isn’t it enough to break one’s heart to think of 
it ? ” said Ruth. When I carried them, one by one, 
to their mother, to take leave of them, I thought she 
would die.” 

How can you talk about such horrid, gloomy 
things when I am eating my dinner? Talk of some- 
thing else. How did Frank appear?” 


140 


PEMAQUID. 


“Very serious and sympathizing,” Ruth replied. 

“ Well, now, confess. Should you have stayed at 
I he parsonage a whole month if he had not been 
there 1 ” 

“ He was not there. They would not let him stay 
lest he should take the disease. He used to come 
three times a day to know how they all were, and 
some one would open a window and tell him.” 

“ I suppose the * some one ’ was Ruth Woodford.” 

“ I do not remember going to the window once. I 
almost always had a child in my arms.” 

“ I don’t see why he does not call to see me all 
this time,” continued Juliet. 

“ So do I,” said Ruth, cordially. “ He admires 
you very much.” 

I doubt if he is in the mood to make calls,” re- 
marked Mr. Woodford. “He was extremely fond of 
the little Strongs, as they were of him.” 

“He ought to go out, then, and divert his mind,” 
said Juliet. 

“He is probably diverting it in his closet,” said 
Ruth. 

“Of course he is,” said Mr. Woodford. “That is, 
he is. finding his solace there. It is the only place in 
all the world for mourning souls.” 

“Now don’t, Pa Woodford,” quoth Juliet. “I 
want to eat my dinner in peace.’ 

Whereupon he subsided. 


MRS. WOODFORD. 


141 


I only hope he is not aware that she calls him 
“ Pa,” in derision. 

And somehow those few words about finding 
solace in prayer have clung to me, and I can not 
shake them off. Sometimes I almost wish I had 
been born and brought up here in Pemaquid. 


XII. 


" O what a sight were man, if his attire 
Did alter with his mind ; 

And if, like a dolphin’s skin, his clothes combined 
To alter with his mindl” 


— Herbert. 


FRANK WESTON’S SIDE OF THE STORY. 
HERE is a passage in the Bible to this effect 



^ Unstable as waters, thou shalt not excel.” 1 
am beginning to think these words describe my char- 
acter and prophesy my future. 

When I came to Pemaquid I fully intended to stay 
here only so long as it would require to earn suffi- 
cient to carry me through my professional studies. 
And my profession was to be that of a minister. 

I knew that if I chose that, I must renounce a 
good deal — all chance of being rich, of indulging my 
love of ease, of gratifying my taste. At times this 
seemed hard. At other times, when I was in a good 
frame, for example, it seemed easy. 

Well, I came here, right into the heart of a minis- 
ter’s family, and saw his life, stripped of all romance, 
just as it was. I saw him overworked and under- 
paid. I saw him toiling, day and night, not merely 


( 142 ) 


FRANK WESTON'S OPINION, 


143 


to feed the souls of his people, but to feed the bodies 
of his wife and children. What little his people paid 
him they paid grudgingly and irregularly. He had to 
be all things to all men, and Mrs. Strong all things 
to all women. He was a hewer of wood, and she a 
drawer of water. To be sure, they maintained that 
it was a most blessed life. Neither of them would 
own that, having put their hand to the plough, 
they had once looked back. And they were most 
eager in urging me to carry out my intention to enter 
the ministry. 

On the other hand, with a tenth of the labor Mr. 
Strong bestows on his vineyard, I receive in mine 
twice his salary. The question, then, naturally arises. 
Why not stay where you are, and make the most of 
the bird in the bush ? 

During six days out of seven the question is easily 
answered. But on Sunday, when I have leisure for 
reflection, life puts on a new aspect. Sunday says, 
in one voice or another, that no man liveth to him- 
self. It rouses and shakes me, and reminds me of 
vows and promises made upon my knees to God. 

If the truth must be told, Sundays are gloomy 
days to me. I pass them in vain resolves, and a 
kind of stupid remorse ; Monday sets me on my feet 
again, and by Saturday I am quite disenthralled. 

This pretty little village does not offer much temp- 
tation to worldliness. The people of Pemaquid are 
a staid, church-going people, and most of the young 


144 


PEMAQUID, 


folks follow in the way they should go. Yet a temp^ 
tation has met me even here. It is in the shape of 
one of the handsomest girls I ever saw. She is tall 
and commanding in figure, and her eyes are magnifi- 
cent. She is the best educated of the young people 
here, and as full of life and spirit as a young hunter. 

It is not vanity in me to own to myself, here in 
secret, that she thinks equally well of me. We have 
gradually got up a regular flirtation. Now and then 
my conscience gets the upper hand and warns me to 
stay away. Mrs. Strong, who can not endure any 
one who does not belong to the Church, warns me 
solemnly against her. Then I force myself to keep 
aloof week after week ; business presses ; I have en- 
gagements ; all sorts of excuses can be got up in an 
emergency. Then Juliet gets my head into the 
noose again. I rush back to her side, and things are 
soon on their old footing. Am I in love with 
this beautiful sinner? — for a sinner she is, in will, at 
least. 

I can not help pitying her, and her mother too. 
They seem so out of place in that stiff, puritanical 
atmosphere at Mr. Woodford’s. But I ought to be 
careful what I say about him. If ever there was a man 
of angelic nature, he is one. Mrs. Strong says so, 
and she knows about all there is to know in Pema- 
quid. He has certainly treated me with great gener- 
osity, but he treats his cat and his dog as well, oi 
would do so if he could. 


FRANK WESTON^S OP INTO N 


145 


Mrs. Strong is fain to make a match between my- 
self and a certain little girl of his whom she has seen 
only once for many years. I can imagine what sort 
of a commonplace heroine she would introduce into 
my life ! Many thanks for your trouble ! Meanwhile 
I shall choose for myself, dear madam. 

We stand jesting on the very threshold of impend- 
ing calamity ! While I was writing the above, this 
trio of lovely little children was being signed and 
sealed for eternity ! Ah ! how life looks in the pres- 
ence of death ! 

To go back to the beginning, if I can collect my 
thoughts. So Mrs. Strong’s little paragon, Ruth 
Woodford, has come home. She is the quaintest, 
purest, sweetest little rose-bud of a Puritan one can 
imagine ! 

There is an epidemic prevailing in the village, and 
Mrs. Strong thought that she and the children were 
coming down with it. I laughed at her, but called at 
the doctor’s on my way to the Woodfords, where I 
spent the evening. As I left, Ruth made me promise 
I would come back for her if she was needed at the 
parsonage. 

I went back for her, though I knew they were 
stricken down with contagious disease. I knew she 
would go, if it cost her her life. 

And my three playfellows, my pride and delight; 

are all gone ! 

7 


146 


P EM A QUID. 


All the laughter and merriment, all sound of little 
voices, the pattering of little feet, forever gone ! 

If I am so unmanned that, as I write, I am crying 
like a boy, what is this grief to the poor father and 
mother ! I hardly dare to go nigh them ; such sor- 
row as theirs is too sacred to be looked upon. How 
much they are beloved ! The whole parish seems 
afflicted with them. Is not such devotion and sym- 
pathy as this better than money? Suppose a fortune 
were at this moment offered Mr. Strong in exchange 
for the tears and kind services of his people at this 
awful moment ! 

I trust that from this hour I shall be another man. 
I will dismiss forever my worldly ambition and sloth- 
fulness. I will never think of Juliet but as the merest 
acquaintance. I will, as soon as possible, resume my 
studies, and make it my life-work to preach that Gos- 
pel which offers the only refuge from calamities like 
these. 

I find Ruth Woodford quite a pleasant little friend. 
She was with Mrs. Strong during the illness, and for 
some time after the death, of the children, and likes 
to hear me talk of them. She has, certainly, more 
heart than Juliet, who is merry at my seriousness. 
Though there have been so many deaths here, and 
she has been herself on the border of the grave, 
there is no getting her to stop to think one minute. 

A pretty minister s wife she would be, to be sure ! 


FRANK WESTON OPINION, 


147 


I find it will be more prudent to remain here a lit- 
tle longer. I never shall have another opportunity 
of laying up a penny or two, and a year more or less 
can not make any serious difference as to my useful- 
ness. Indeed, I am acquiring an experience now that 
will be of great service to me hereafter. It would 
really be cruel to run away and leave the Strongs just 
now. Mrs. Strong does not seem to know what to 
set herself about. She wanders over the house look- 
ing like one in a dream. 

I am so indignant I can hardly contain myself. 
That jackanapes, Josiah Stone, is actually making up 
to Ruth! He torments her v/ith his coarse atten- 
tions. I am sure that pure-minded, innocent girl can 
not endure them. But he shall never have her! 
Never! Rather than see her his victim, I would 
marry her myself. How different she and Juliet are ! 
Sl)e has a quiet, steady cheerfulness that quite rests 
one. Juliet, on the contrary, with her bursts of mer- 
riment and heights of passion, almost wears one out. 
Fortunately, these village lads are all afraid of her. 
Of course, now that I have decided finally on the 
ministry, I must be on my guard against this danger- 
ous beauty. 

I hardly know how it has come about, but my 
good angel has won the day. After not a few strug- 
gles between co.itending inclinations — for I admire 


148 


PEMAQUID, 


Juliet exceedingly — I have at last proposed to Ruth, 
The little thing was easily caught and caged. Mr. 
and Mrs. Strong are delighted with my choice; I 
have not seen them so cordially pleased for many a 
long month. Mr. Strong says a worthy attachment 
was all I needed to settle and establish my character. 
He says^ too, that there is no reason why we should 
not be married before I complete my studies. 1 
have now quite a little sum on hand, and Mr. Wood- 
ford would do up things handsomely. 

Mr. Woodford is not so enchanted with our pro- 
posed union as we are. He is going to make us wait 
a year before we are actually engaged. I dare say 
he is right. I find it rather a relief to be left free 
yet a little longer. Not that I expect to become 
weary of Ruth. She is too much in love with me 
for that. Why, I can wind her round my finger 
already ! 

I do not know how Juliet will feel if she happens 
to find out how I stand toward Ruth. I shall have 
to try to keep her in ignorance, though that will be 
no easy matter, I imagine. 

MRS. WUDDFORD. 

I am extremely puzzled by Frank Weston’s be- 
havior toward Juliet. 

He treats her with no little caprice. After paying 
her every attention he will stay away for weeks to- 
gether, and when they meet after such an interval he 


MJRS, WOODFORD. 


149 


treats her with a coolness she can hardly endure. 1 
feel not a little perplexed and annoyed at his con- 
duct, which I can not understand. Juliet frets and 
chafes, and vents her ill-humor on me. I have nol 
dared to tell her that during her sickness he nevei 
came once to inquire for her, though he was assidu 
ous enough in solicitude about Mr. Woodford. 

In honor of her present restoration to health I gave 
a small tea-party, gathering all the young folks to- 
gether from all the region round about Pemaquid. It 
passed off very well, only at half-past nine Mr. 
Woodford would have prayers, and that broke up 
the assembly, of course. Frank Weston lingered be- 
hind to transact some business with Mr. Woodford, 
ostensibly, and he and Juliet fell into a running fire 
of banter and fun which ended in her inviting him to 
come and play backgammon with her to-morrow 
evening. 

Things progress quite to my mind. Frank Weston 
is here on every possible pretense and Juliet is per- 
fectly infatuated about him. It is true he is rather 
cool for a lover, but such joyous, thoughtless charac- 
ters as his are not usually accompanied with much 
heart. He likes Juliet better than anybody else and 
she ought to be satisfied with that. I can safely 
leave her to play her own cards. She is perfectly 
capable of managing her affairs, and sooner or later 
Mr. Frank, you will have to yield. 

Frank has spent the evening here. There was some 


150 


PEMAQUin. 


jesting allusion made to Ruth’s want of education by 
Juliet. Frank defended Ruth warmly. He said it 
was the best sort of education for a woman to spend 
the years of her girlhood as Ruth had done. 

“ The fact is,” he said, “ all the wisdom in the world 
will not make a woman a pleasant companion. I 
would not give a fig for your learning, except as it 
teaches you to be a blessing to others.” 

I declare, if you haven’t caught the real Strong 
twang,” cried Juliet. “You prefer sweet simplicity 
and ignorance to talents and accomplishments.” 

“ I did not say that,” he returned, good-humoredly 
enough. “ All I meant was to defend poor Ruth ; 
however, I dare say she is able to defend herself.” 

“You make pretty free, it seems to me, sir ! ” said 
Juliet. 

He smiled and looked at Ruth. 

“You don’t care, do you?” he asked; “I can’t 
make myself call you Miss. I have been used so long 
to think of you as ‘ Ruth,’ and nothing more.” 

She looked surprised. 

“Ah, I forget that you do not know how often 
Mrs. Strong has spoken of you. You must revenge 
yourself by calling me Frank.” 

“ I will,’’ she said quietly. 

Juliet looked extremely annoyed, but had sense 
enough to say no more. 

After a little more laughing and jesting it was 
agreed that Frank should come every evening, except 


RUTH^S JOURNAL, 


151 


the two devoted to meetings, and give and receive 
lessons. Juliet was to teach him French and he was 
to instruct her in Latin. As to Ruth, he was to 
teach her a little of everything. 

Juliet recovered her spirits and soon they were 
“Juliet” and “Frank” to each other. 

ruth’s journal. 

Mrs. Strong sent for me to spend the day with her. 
Frank was there at dinner and at tea, and all evening, 
and was ever so pleasant. 

Mrs. Strong says he likes me; and he acts as if he 
did. But I tell her he likes Juliet just as well. 

She looked troubled. 

“ I fill a mother’s place to him,” said she, “ while he 
is from home. And he has been open and frank with 
me always. I took it for granted he liked you best. 
Why, Juliet is a most unsuitable person for a minister’s 
wife ! ” 

My heart beat so I was afraid she would hear it. I 
am afraid I have almost forgotten dear grandma and 
have put Frank in her place. I am afraid I want him 
to like me better than Juliet. If I do I hope God 
will forgive me and deliver me from this temptation. 

Frank has said a good many things to me lately. 
He says he likes me. and that I am his good angel. I 
tell him I am a poor, sinful child, and not worthy to 
be called an angel. But I suppose it is a way men 


152 


FEMAQUIB. 


have of talking, and that they don't mean much. I 
am getting to think of him a great deal. I always 
know whether he is at meeting or not. I pay atten- 
tion to all he says to Juliet. Sometimes I am afraid 
I am displeased with Juliet for hanging round him so. 
The next time he comes I will stay up here in my 
room and pray for a better frame of mind. 

Frank walked home with me from meeting this 
evening. And he said he had made up his mind to 
be a minister ; and when he has got through his 
studies he will come back to Pemaquid for his little 
wife. I said he must ask father first. 

But of course father will only be pleased. He may 
not think I am good enough for Frank, or that I am 
fit to be a minister's wife. Indeed, I know I am not. 
But there will be so many years while Frank is study- 
ing that I can be praying to God to make me worthy 
of him ; though if I should pray all my life I should 
never be so good as Mrs. Strong is. But I have told 
Frank that, and how much he’ll have to put up with. 

Frank and I went together to ask father. He did 
not seem so pleased as I expected he would. He 
said we were both young and not fit to j^idge what 
was best for us. And he said he did not like long 
engagements. Frank argued with him a good deal, 
but I did not say a word. At last father said he 


RUTH^S JOURNAL, 


153 


would reflect on the subject and let us know in a few 
days what he had decided. 

After Frank had gone, father looked at me so 
kindly and said : 

“ Do you really love him, my daughter?’* 

And I was so silly I just burst out a-crying and 
went and hid in his arms. 

Mrs. Strong sent for me this afternoon, and she 
and Mr. Strong both said they were so pleased with 
what Frank had done. Mrs. Strong said it had been 
her plan all along, and her plans always turned out 
so nicely ! Father had been there to talk with them 
about it, but they did not tell me what he said. 

Father has made up his mind to let us choose for 
ourselves. He has given us a great deal of good ad- 
vice for him, for he is not in the habit of talking 
much. He says he should prefer not to have it an 
engagement, but to have us wait a year or so and see 
if our minds do not change. I know mine never will. 
I liked Frank the first time I saw him. But perhaps 
when he goes away from here and sees other 
girls he may wish he was not tied to me. I should 
not blame him if he did. But it would break my 
heart. 

Frank says we will do just as father likes. We 
won’t call it an engagement yet awhile, but will love 
each other just the same. 


7 * 


154 


PEMAQUin. 


It seems as if God was too good to me ! Perhaps 1 
think more of having Frank to love because I haven’t 
any own mother. 

We have not told any one yet. Frank says it is 
not worth while as it is not a real engagement. I 
wish, though, Josiah Stone knew it, because he worries 
me by following me about. And it seems as if Juliet 
ought to be told, too. For she is greatly taken up 
with Frank, and might get to liking him too much. 

But Frank is quite earnest to have nothing said. 
He says father knows best, and we ought to do all 
we can to please him. That is so kind in Frank! 

So things go on just exactly as they did before. 
Juliet laughs and jokes with him as much as ever, and 
when he is here she takes him all to herself, and I 
have to listen to Josiah Stone. I shall have to pray 
not to be led into temptation more than ever now. 
Loving Frank has made me so selfish ! 


XIII. 


“ He that wavcreth is like a wave of the sea, driven by the wind 
and tossed.” 


FRANK WESTON. 

T BEGIN to fear I was a little hasty in proposing 
to Ruth. I know how it happened, though. I 
admired the self-sacrifice with which she devoted 
herself to the Strongs, and then I was greatly shaken 
by their deaths, which awakened slumbering aspira- 
tions for a better life. And to a man in such a mood, 
Ruth was most congenial. 

But my moods vary. If Ruth influences one side 
of my character, Juliet influences the other. ’ Still, I 
hope I shall remain faithful to Ruth, for she has power 
to become my good angel, especially if I enter the 
ministry. And if ever there was a girl with a devil in 
her, it is Juliet. There is nothing to which she would 
not stoop. 

The most unlucky thing has happened ! Ruth and 
the rest of them being absent, Juliet drew me into 
playing cards with the Stones and their set. I had 
about made up my mind never to play cards again 

a55) 


156 


PEMAQUID. 


Ruth would not like it, and it would not look well 
in a theological student. But just for this once I 
yielded. Juliet not appreciating or not knowing my 
scruples, took pains, at least seemed so, to betray me 
to Ruth. The poor, dear little Puritan’s face ex- 
pressed the most painful horror and incredulity. I 
never thought to see such a look ther$. 

She went off without speaking a word, and I car 
fancy her righteous indignation. I could not help 
showing some uneasiness, but Juliet declared I need 
not be concerned. 

“ Her fits of the pouts never last long,’* she said, 
encouragingly. 

So it seems that, amiable as she appears, she is 
subject to fits of being quite the reverse. After all, 
what have I done that I need be so annoyed ? Card- 
playing is not in itself amiss. I do not know of a 
young fellow of my age who does not play if he can 
get a chance. It is merely the association with worse 
things that makes the saints shrug their shoulders 
and pass by on the other side. Yet, I must give them . 
up if I study the.ology, as well as some other little 
amusements of which I am fond, and in which there 
is not the least harm in the world. Meanwhile, why 
should not I enjoy myself as other young people do? 
Ruth will see how reasonable it is that I should do 
so. I shall talk her into a good humor to-morrow, 
and that pretty little face of hers will smile on me 
more charmingly than ever. 


FRANK WESTON. 


157 


I have not had a chance to see Ruth alone yet. It 
is a regular nuisance to be engaged, yet not engaged. 
I have spent every evening of this week at the Wood- 
fords, but Juliet has been at home, and so has her 
mother, and Ruth has kept as steadily at work as if 
that were her sole business on earth. I can not say 
she seems in the least vexed with me. But she looks 
grieved and sorrowful, and as if something had gone 
out of her life. Poor little puss ! Her rigid, Yankee 
training has come within an ace of spoiling her. 

At last I have prostrated myself before my little 
confessor. She has forgiven me, and we are on the 
best of terms again. But I had no idea the child had 
so much in her. Why, her sense of duty is like a 
mountain of granite. You can neither undermine it 
or bore through it. There it stands, and since it can 
not be moved you are fain to move yourself. I have 
promised never, never to play cards again ! Well, it 
is only to antedate the day of sacrifice and yield to 
her what I must soon yield to public opinion. 

Josiah Stone, that great lump of humanity, has 
been to see me to-day. The interview ought to be 
recorded for future gratification. 

I say, Frank Weston,” he began, time you 
and I came to an understanding.” 

‘Indeed!” 

“Yes, it is. You needn’t look so innocent. You 
know what I mean.” 


158 


PEMAQUID. 


I profess ignorance. 

Well, see here. Are you courting both of them 
girls ? And if you aint, which one of ’em air you 
courting?’* 

‘‘ I really am not aware to whom you refer,” I said, 
coolly. 

“ Well, now, you stop that. What girls ? Why, 
the Woodford girls, of course.** 

“ I was not aware there were two of the Wood- 
fords.*’ 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, Frank Weston, you have 
got to come up to the scratch, and ’taint no use to 
hang back. Come, now. Behave reasonable. Is it 
Juliet you are after, or is it Ruth?” 

I leaned back in my chair and fixed my eyes medi- 
tatively on the ceiling. 

‘‘ On the whole,” I said, solemnly, “ I believe it’s 
both of them ! ** 

“ Very well, sir. I shall give you the trouble to say 
as much to Mr. Woodford!” He got up, swelling 
his plumes till he looked like an enormous turkey- 
cock. I rose, opened the door to its fullest extent, 
and let him out. Alas ! for thee, oh Josiah! the days 
of choking and stabbing and shooting your rival are 
over. It is only in books that such romances are en- 
acted. 

This evening I met my plucky hero at the house 
of my two heroines. Mr. Woodford sat in his usual 


FJ^ANK lVFSTOJ\r. 


159 


corner, nodding over his book. Mrs. Woodford, pre- 
tending to read, swallowed every word that fell from 
our precious young lips. J made myself agreeable 
to the girls, which it was not hard to do. Juliet 
turned her back upon Josiah and forgot that he was 
in the room. Ruth, after a few attempts at civility, 
soon did the same. Without meaning to wound her, 
meaning only to exasperate Josiah, 1 flirted desper- 
ately with Juliet. She dared me at last, after a deal 
of preliminary nonsense, to kiss her. Though we 
sat apart, and talked in half-whispers, I saw that 
Ruth heard all that passed. Her color mounted, the 
needle trembled and quivered in her fingers ; yet my 
evil genius led me on. I leaned over Juliet; she 
sprang up, laughing and defying me; a chair was up- 
set and Ruth’s work-basket thrown down ; I rushed 
on. caught the beautiful, tempting creature, and kiss- 
ed her ! 

Mr. Woodford took off his spectacles, looked at me 
a full minute, and rising, said: 

‘‘ Young man, you have been drinking !” 

“I told you so!” cried Josiah, with a malignant 
laugh. “ I told you so ! And it was only last even- 
ing he owned he was courting both on ’em. Court- 
ing Juliet and courting Ruth! ” 

I had come to my senses by this time. There was 
only one thing to do, and that I did. 

“Mr. Woodford,” I said, “I can not wonder that 
you are shocked at my behavior. I assure you 1 am 


160 


PEMAQUID, 


shocked myself. I was led from step to step till I was 
guilty of unpardonable rudeness. I owe you an 
apology for it, as I do to every one present.” 

Well, there is tremendous power in good looks and 
in agreeable manners. My frank, boyish, penitent 
way went straight to all their hearts (except Josiah’s, 
of course. He has none). I went up to Mr. Wood- 
ford, whose displeasure had begun to relax. 

“Forgive me this, my first offense,” I said. “It 
was done in boyish frolic; I meant no disrespect to 
you, sir. And I assure you that I was intoxicated 
with folly, not with wine.” 

“I believe you, Frank,” he said. “You have a 
good, honest eye of your own, that is not afraid to 
meet mine. But let me tell you, young man, that I 
will not overlook such shameless conduct in my house 
again. Juliet, you were in fault also. I hope you in- 
tend to follow Frank’s example and apologize for it.” 

“ Pooh I what a fuss about nothing ! ” cried she. 
“Young folks must have a little fun. You can’t ex- 
pect us to sit each in a corner with our hands folded 
in our laps. However, I owe Frank an apology, and 
here it is ! ” So saying, she marched up to me and 
boxed my ears soundly. 

Mrs. Woodford looked frightened, and drew Juliet 
out of the room. Josiah stood his ground during a 
few minutes’ unpleasant silence, which was at last 
broken by Mr. Woodford’s saying, gravely : 

“It is after nine, Josiah.” 


FRANK WESTON. 


161 


On this hint Josiah took his departure. 

I looked now at Ruth. She still sat at the table 
with her work in her hands, but her tears were falling 
fast. 

I approached her timidly. 

“ Ruth,” I said, “ are you veiy'” angry with me ? ” 
Not angry y' she said. 

‘‘You surely do not believe what that wretched 
fellow has been saying. Indeed, Ruth, I was only 
trying to punish him for thinking of you. Dear Ruth, 
say you forgive me! You know I never, never will 
be guilty of such folly and rudeness again.” 

“ Frank,” she said, looking at me steadily, “ do you 
think it is right to try to make Juliet like you so? 
Don’t think I aint willing you should like her. But 
you are so — so — ” 

“Yes, I know,” I said. “I have behaved abomina- 
bly. I would give my right hand to take it all back. 
After this I will not come here any more. You must 
meet me at Mrs. Strong’s.” 

“Oh, noy' she said.' “But, Frank — you mustn’t 
mind my speaking of it — wouldn’t it be better for 
you to go right away into the seminary? You have 
got into such a habit of joking and frolicking with 
Juliet, that I don’t believe you can change your ways 
now. The best plan is to go away where you won’t 
be tempted.” 

“ Ruth, my daughter,” said Mr. Woodford, from 
his remote corner, “ it is getting late. You ought to 


162 FEMAQUID, 

be in bed. I wish to have a word with Frank before 
he goes.” 

Ruth rose and said good-night. Her poor little 
hand was cold as ice when she took leave of me, 
though her cheeks glowed like a furnace. 

“ I have been thinking of speaking to you for some 
time, Frank,” Mr. Woodford began. Let us come 
to an understanding now, once for all. Do you still 
love^my daughter?” 

I declared that I did. 

And you still mean to become a minister ? ” 

I said yes. 

“ Then why are you not at your studies? Several 
months have passed since you declared that you 
meant to enter the seminary at once.” 

“Yes; I remember. But, to be frank with you, I 
have waited and waited from a sense of unfitness for 
such a position as that of a minister of the Gospel. I 
am naturally gay and impulsive ; what I aim to be 
on one day, I fail to be on the next. I assure you, I 
pass many an hour of shame and remorse ; sometimes 
I am tempted to throw up the whole project and de- 
vote myself to business.” 

“ It is a temptation of Satan,” he said, impress- 
ively. 

“ But if I fail, if I fall, if I sin, the scandal would be 
very great.” 

“You have no right to such ifs. You have no 
right to fall or to sin.” 


FJ^ANK WESTON. 


163 


I said a young fellow of my temperament had pe* 
culiar difficulties to contend with. 

“ And you can have very peculiar help in the time 
of need. But let me tell you what you lack. You 
lack that warm, fervent love to Christ that breaks 
down all obstacles and conquers all difficulties. 
Without this love you are not fit to be a minister. 
But then you are not fit for anything else. You see 
you can not get rid of responsibility by merely es- 
caping the ministry. If you choose to be a man of 
business, you still must live to Christ. Ah, we can’t 
escape responsibility, not one of us. 

“ I don’t mean to be hard on you,’’ he began again. 
“ If I have been, I hope you’ll overlook it. But 
when you go home get down on your knees, open 
your Bible before you, and read and pray at once. 
You can’t do it without getting light, sooner or later. 
Ah, it’s a blessed thing to pray. Think, now: a 
poor, ignorant, sinful man may get down on his 
knees and speak to- God ! That seems almost hard 
to believe, doesn’t it ? ” 

The clock struck ten. 

I came home completely sobered and saddened. 
What a reckless, good-for-nothing fellow I am! 
Why can’t I get anchored somewhere, instead of drift- 
ing about in this style ? As to my behavior this 
evening, I can never think of it without a blush. It 
was partly Juliet’s fault, however. She led me on 
from step to step till I was mad with folly. 1 wish J 


164 


PEMAQUID. 


had never seen her. I wish I had never set foot ir 
Pemaquid. I have a good mind to leave it to-mor 
row, and start afresh in some place where I am not 
known. But, after all, what have I done? Nothing 
so very terrible, I am sure. Who, in my place, would 
not have kissed a pretty girl who dared him to do it ? 
The bother is their all seeing it, and the disrespect to 
Mr. Woodford, good old man ! Well, if I were half 
as good as he is, I would enter the pulpit with a 
rush, and carry all before me. Oh, for some power, 
outside of myself, to force me to the manner of life I 
ought to lead ! I hope that little saint of mine prays 
for me now and then. 

I have had a talk with Mr. Strong in reference to 
my future. He asked me what led me to think of 
the ministry. I told him my mother made me 
promise to enter it on her dying bed. 

‘‘Was this promise made with no qualifications?” 
he asked, with some surprise. 

I said there was a qualification. I was to enter 
the ministry if called to it by the Spirit. And in the 
tenderness of feeling consequent on her death I 
thought I had such a call. But repeatedly, since 
that time, the world, the flesh, and the devil have 
been too much for me, and I often question whether 
1 have not mistaken my vocation. 

“Whatever your vocation, you can not escape rt 
sponsibility.” 


FRANK WESTON, 


165 


"That is exactly what Mr. Woodford says. Well 
now, Mr. Strong, pray counsel me. What would you 
do in my case ? " 

He smiled. 

" What did I do in my own case ? he asked. 

"Oh, but you are very different from me. You 
can have had none of my temptations. Your tem- 
perament is wholly unlike mine. You never can 
have been so eager for pleasure as I have.’’ 

"You know not what you say. Does not Luther 
tell us that temptation helps to form a divine? And 
do you suppose that when Satan sees men prepare to 
do aggressive work in his kingdom he sits down and 
folds his hands? No, Frank, no. You have put 
your hand to the plough ; do not look back. Throw 
away your boyishness and become a man. Live for 
Christ. Work for Christ. Spend and be spent foi 
Christ. If need be, suffer with and for Christ.” 

I was greatly moved and stimulated. 

I will live for Christ, cost what it may. 


XIV. 


“The superfluous spirits of youth are like the coverings of som4 
insects, which afford them food and support in their transi- 
tion.” 


MRS. WOODFORD, 


E had the most disgraceful scene here last night ! 



I am perfectly ashamed of Juliet, and not a 
little vexed with Frank. What does he mean by h-is 
conduct? He keeps Juliet in a continual state of 
excitement. I am afraid that, as agreeable as he is, 
his wavering, unstable character offers her little 
chance of happiness. If such a thing were possible 
I should say he was in love with both these girls, 
their opposite natures suiting his contradictory 
moods, the one consoling and attracting when the 
other wearies him. I will not let things go on in this 
style much longer. He must be made to do one thing 
or the other. Juliet’s nerves can not endure this 
strain on them ; she will be doing some more fool- 
hardy thing than she did last night. 

Ruth is a little inclined to mope. It is something 
new to see her listless and idle. Mrs, Strong keeps 
sending for her, but she will not go. If there were 


( 166 ) 


MRS. WOODFORD. 


167 


not sick children all about the village I do not think 
she would stir out-of-doors. 

Mr. Woodford has just told me the most extraor- 
dinary thing ! He says Ruth is virtually engaged to 
Frank ! He has not given his full consent, but it will 
amount to that in the end. He is not the man to 
thwart his only daughter. 

I must let Juliet know at once what to expect. 
She little dreams to what a two-sided fellow she has 
given her affections. He is most unworthy of her. 
What right has he to come here, week after week, 
and to pay her the most devoted attentions, when he 
knoivs he is hazarding her happiness forever ? 

If there is in this world one spot where the weary 
can find rest, how gladly would I flee to it ! I 
dread the burst of passion to which Juliet will give 
way when I break this news to her. Who, more than 
myself, has reason to shudder at the thought of see- 
ing such a character as hers the sport of disappoint- 
ment ! 

I went to Juliet’s room, after many an hour of dis- 
mal delay, and found her dressing for the evening. 
Her magnificent hair was flowing all over her shoul- 
ders. I have never seen her look more beautiful. 

^‘Juliet,” I began, “are there any of your old 
school-mates whom you would like to visit } ” 

“ I don’t know,” she answered indifferently 
There’? Lizzie Hunter — I like her pretty well ; we 


168 


PEMAQUID 


used to be great cronies at school. But she nevei 
asked me to make her a visit. 

What has become of Harriet ? ” 

** Oh, Hat Boon ? Yes, she did beg and beseech me 
to come and see her, and I said I would. But I am 
in no hurry about it. I rather think I can wait.” 

But I particularly wish you to have a little 
change of air and scene.” 

She turned round from the glass and faced me. 

Mother, I do wish when you’ve got a thing to 
say you’d say it, and done with it. If there’s any- 
thing I hate it’s beating about the bush.’* 

‘‘Very well, then. This is what I have to say: 
Frank is engaged to Ruth, and has been I do not 
know how long.” 

She burst out laughing. 

“ Well, and what then ? ” cried she. 

“Oh, if you can take it so coolly, nothing at all. I 
fancied you might feel that you had an equal claim 
to him with Ruth.” 

“ Equal ! ” she cried, “ I have ten times the claim ! 
But that is nothing. Let me alone, mother. I know 
what I am about. I have told you twenty times 
that I can manage my affairs to suit myself. What 
if he /s engaged to Ruth ? He is not married to her 
I suppose ? ” 

“ As good as married,” I answered dryly — for hei 
imperious manner displeased me. 

“ Come, now,” she continued, beginning to braid 


RUTH^S JOURNAL, 


169 


up her hair, “ I’ll tell you all about it if it will make 
you feel any better in your mind. I’m going to give 
F. W. plenty of line, and let him play out in deep 
water if he likes. He and Ruth can have the sea all 
to themselves for aught I care. I can afford to wait. 
But all of a sudden I shall draw in my line, and then 
you’ll see what you will see ! ” 

Well ? ” I said, uneasily. 

“ Well, I shall catch him at the right moment, and 
carry him off in triumph. Then good-bye forever to 
the land of Pemaquid.” 

I shook my head. 

** You needn’t shake your head, it isn’t worth the 
trouble. I shall be Mrs. F. W. whenever I please.’* 

ruth’s journal. 

Father and Mr. and Mrs. Strong and I have all 
been beseeching Frank to go away from here, where 
his temptations are very great. He can not come to 
our house any more, unless he is prepared to break 
his engagement with me. I have quite made up my 
mind to that, even if it kills me to see him no more. 
Ob, how much better off I was when I lived with 
grandma, reading good books to her, hearing her 
heavenly conversation and prayers ! 

I think father would be glad to have Frank go 
away and never come back. He forgets how young 

people feel. 

8 


170 FEMAQUID. 

He says forgiving a man is one thing and marrying 
him is another. 

I do not know what to make of Juliet. She is in 
such spirits, and is pleasant to every one, even to 
me. 

It is plain enough that I have not now the sweet 
peace I had about the time grandma died, and after- 
ward. I have been too taken up with Frank. But 
he was so different from me, so well educated, so full 
of his fun, so bright and wide-awake, and then, at 
times, showing such a warm, strong, real heart. How 
he loved those little children ! How tender and 
solemn he was after they died ! How hard he tried 
to be a better man ! 

Since I wrote that I have had a beautiful letter 
from Frank, in which he says he has decided to study 
theology with Dr. Robertson, instead of going to the 
seminar>^ He says he has sown all his wild oats, and 
is going to study very hard, and try, by prayer and 
meditation, to become a godly and useful man. 

I knew he would come out all right, and wrote and 
told him so. 

I have had another letter, entreating me to meet 
him at the parsonage. I shall not do that. Her father’s 
house is the place where a young woman should see 
her — friend. 

Why doesn’t he go? He said he was on the wing 


FRANK* S JOURNAL. 171 

He writes again, and says he can not go witnout 
seeing me. 

It is hard for both of us. If I could persuade Juliet 
to stay in her room just one evening ! But there is 
no use in trying. 

It is two weeks since Frank promised to go, and 
he is still here. My father is much displeased. But 
Frank says if he can have one interview with me he 
really will go. 

J uliet had such a raging toothache that she was in 
bed all day. I suppose father notified Frank that he 
could see me undisturbed, and he came. He made 
all sorts of protestations and promises, and said he 
should be only too thankful to get out of Juliet’s 
way. He said he should write to me often, and that 
I must write as often as I could to him. 

We agreed not to let Juliet know where he was 
going or when. 

And at last he has gone. 

Mrs. Strong has been very kind and sympathizing. 
She says she loves Frank warmly, and believes he will 
become a good and useful man. 

FRANK’S JOURNAL. 

It is a year since I left Pemaquid — a year of hard 
work under a very austere, but most worthy man, 


m 


PEMAQUID. 


Last evening, after a day of unusual fatigue, 1 was 
lazily turning over letters that had come from differ- 
ent directions, when I found among them this card : 

MISS WOODFORD, 

Pemaquid, 

with a city address appended. 

I was on my feet in a moment. Had my good 
angel, my little loving girl, so heartily forgiven me as 
to take this long journey to see me once more? I 
bounded down-stairs and into the street. In. ten 
minutes I had reached the house indicated, and sent 
in my name. Was there any doubt now as to who I 
loved with all my heart and soul ? The door opened, 
I sprang forward with a face all aglow with delight, 
when lo ! Juliet, not Ruth, stood before me! 

‘‘Your humble servant, sir!” she cried, dropping 
me a profound courtesy. 

“ You have deceived me cruelly,” I said as soon as 
I could speak. 

“ Indeed ? And how, pray ? ” 

“ By beguiling me here under false pretenses, under 
a false name ! ” 

“ As to that,” she returned, “ I have gone by the 
name of Woodford for years. And so you are not 
glad to see me aftei this long journey ? ” 

I began, indeed, to find great pleasure in seeing her 
Of course a man deep in theological study is in no 
danger of being tempted by such a g.rl as this. 


JFRANK S JOURNAL. 


173 


So we began a lively conversation, in which we 
were joined by her hostess, a young lady to whom I 
was introduced as “ Hat Boon.” 

It was quite late when I rose to go. 

There are no gentlemen in this family,” said 
Juliet, ‘‘and we hope to find you serviceable as an 
escort. To-morrow being Sunday, we should like to 
go to church where we can hear fine music.” 

I saw no harm in this, and promised to be on hand 
at an early hour the next evening, excusing myself 
for the day, not daring to face the temptation of the 
thoroughly worldly conversation I should have to en- 
gage in. 

On reaching the house I found both ladies equipped 
for the walk. 

“ You have asked nothing about Ruth,” said Juliet. 
“ She is quite well, and sends you this token of her 
affectionate remembrance.” 

Whereupon she presented me with as vulgar a piece 
of handiwork in the way of a picture it was ever my 
misfortune to see. It was made of cloves, allspice, 
beans, corn, watermelon seeds, and I know not 
what. 

I felt myself blush all over. Was a girl capable 
of such crude folly to be my future wife? Was my 
house to be made hideous by similar performances? 

“It is trying for you,” said Juliet. “But what 
could you expect ? ” 

“ I expect some germs of refinement in her,” I re- 


174 FEMAQUID. 

plied hotly. “ Why, such a gift as this would insult 
a ploughman ! ” 

“ I was afraid it would annoy you, but Ruth would 
make me bring it.” 

Greatly ruffled, and giving the thing a kick as I 
passed it, where it stood leaning against a chair, I 
took the young ladies to a fashionable church, where 
they may have heard music ; I heard only discord. 
The next day I received a letter from Ruth, saying 
she had availed herself of an opportunity to send me 
a specimen of her own workmanship, with which she 
hoped I would be pleased. I wrote and acknowledged 
the gift, but in an ungracious way. In one sense it 
was a little thing, but so are mosquitoes, and they 
sting. 

. One stormy evening when I called upon Juliet, she 
said that they were expecting a few friends, and hoped 
I would join them in a game of cards. 

I declined, remembering my promise to Ruth. Be- 
sides, I knew Dr. Robertson would disapprove of a 
theological student of his engaging in an amusement 
universally abandoned by the religious world. 

“But just this once,” Juliet pleaded ; “just to help 
make up the party.” 

I yielded, just for once. I played, and lost ; tried 
to retrieve my losses; plunged in deeper; at last, at 
a late hour, went home ashamed and provoked 


RUTWS JOURNAL, 


I7t 


ruth’s journal. 

Juliet said she was going to visit her friend, Misa 
Boon, and that as she lived only twenty miles from 
where Frank is studying, she was sure if I sent him 
a present of some sort she could get it conveyed that 
short distance to him. 

** But how came you to know where he is ? ” I ask- 
ed, in great surprise. 

“ Why, you did not really suppose he would keep 
me in ignorance of his whereabouts, did you ? Such 
good friends as we are not to correspond ? ” 

I was so hurt at such duplicity on Frank’s part that 
I could hardly keep from crying. 

But I had been at work all winter on a set of fine 
linen collars for him, and this opportunity of sending 
them to him was too good to lose. So I made them 
up into a neat little bundle which I delivered into 
Juliet’s hands. 

I did not hear from Frank very soon, but when his 
letter came, it was so plain that he was not pleased 
with my gift, that I was cut to the heart. The linen 
was very fine ; I am esteemed a good needle-woman ; 
what could annoy him so? 

I wrote and begged him to tell me what I had done 
to vex him. 

He replied that he was not vexed, but that he 
trusted I would spare him any more specimens of my 
work, as it looked more like that of a lunatic than 
that of a sane woman. 


176 PEMAQUID. 

I don’t believe any ^\x\ could have helped cr>dng 
9t that ! 

Then I could not help going and telling Mrs, 
S":rong about it. 

She sat and meditated a long time in silence. 

Then she said : 

“ I have two theories about this matter. Either 
Juliet has substituted some vulgar piece of finery for 
your delicately-stitched collars, or the wrong parcel 
was accidentally sent him.” 

This relieved me. I wrote at once to Frank, sug- 
gesting that there had been some strange mistake 
made by the carrier. 

He replied that this was not possible, as Juliet had 
delivered it to him with her own hands. 

O ! O ! J uliet is there, then ! 


XV. 


One dupe is as impossible as one twin.” 

MRS. STRONG TO FRANK WESTON. 

IV/TY Dear Frank : You must not blame our deaf » 
little Ruth for coming to me in her trouble, oi 
blame me fcr pleading her cause. My own sorrows 
bring home to me the griefs of other hearts. I am 
almost glad that I have suffered, because I have 
learned to feel tender sympathy with all who need it. 

I need not tell you how I love Ruth, or why. I 
never can forget her generous devotion to my chil- 
dren, or ever cease admiring her pure, upright char- 
acter. And as you well know, I love you also, Frank, 
and earnestly desire your best good. And that you 
are now living as no Christian man should I am quite 
sure. Your own good sense tells you that Juliet 
Pickett can never be anything but a temptation to 
you. It is true she has a certain attraction for you 
that flatters your vanity, and her great physical beau- 
ty attracts your worst side. But what a companion 
would she be to you when you become an ambassa- 
dor for Christ ! You may reply that you have no in- 
tention of making her your wife, being, virtually, en- 
8 * ( 177 ) 


178 


PEMAQUID. 


gaged to Ruth. But you know that Juliet intends, if 
possible, to marry you, and there is nothing to which 
she would not stoop in pursuit of this end. I suspect 
she has already created some coolness on your part 
toward Ruth. May I ask you what she put into your 
hands as a gift from that innocent child ? 

In conclusion, I entreat you to arise and be a 
man. You have chosen the ministry of Jesus Christ 
as your profession ; it is the best work in which a 
human being can engage. Let nothing make you 
false to Him. 

Yours, affectionately desirous of you, 

Faith Strong. 

FRANK WESTON’S REPLY. 

Dear Mrs. Strong: Your letter has perhaps 
saved a foolish boy from a fatal mistake. I send 
you, with this, the gift Ruth conveyed to me by Ju- 
liet’s own hands, and you must judge for me if, on re- 
ceiving it, I did well to be angry. You know I am a 
good-natured fellow, and that it is a rare thing with 
me to lose my temper. But the idea of spending my 
iite with a girl capable of anything so vulgar, jarred 
upon me and juliet took advantage of this mood, 
and led me on, irom step to step, till I came near 
losing faith in God, faith in myself faith in Ruth, 
and plunging into the pleasures that have, foi 
such attractions. Pray for me, I entreat you, that I 


F RANKES JOURNAL, 


179 


may win in this conflict, and believe at much as you 
can in your wayward boy, Frank. 

MRS. strong’s reply. 

How could you so misjudge our delicate little 
Ruth ? The ‘ picture * was made by a crazy woman 
who is supported by our parish ; she sent it to Mr. 
Strong as a New Year’s gift, in great pride and 
pomp ; it was a source of innocent amusement for a 
time, then tossed aside and forgotten. The malig- 
nity that led Juliet to pass it off on you as Ruth’s 
workmanship is too dreadful. I shall lose all re- 
spect for you if you ever allow that wicked, heartless 
girl to cause Ruth to suffer as she has done during 
the last six weeks. Once more I ask you to rouse 
yourself and be a man. Yes, a true man in Christ 
Jesus. 

Your sincere friend. 

Faith Strong. 

FRANK’S JOURNAL. 

How a foul fiend could dwell in so beautiful a form 
as Juliet’s I can .not imagine! As soon as I learned 
the trick she had played me— credulous fool that I 
was ! — I flew to upbraid her for her infamous deed. 

She burst out laughing and declared it was a mere 
joke, and produced a dainty little parcel, which, she 
said, she was only reserving for the right moment. 

I told her she need expect no more visits from me 


180 


FEMAQUin. 


She said of course not, as she was going home as 
quickly as possible to tell Ruth about my goings on. 
That startled me. Ruth must not know — at least 
not through Juliet. 

“ A pretty budget of news I shall have for the 
child,” she went on. “ Her pious Frank neglecting 
his studies to go hither and thither and yon. A card 
party one night, the theatre the next, oyster suppers, 
wine, dancing — Oh, what fun I shall have!” 

Juliet, it will break the child’s heart.” 

“You should have thought of that.” 

“ And what do you expect to gain ? ” 

“ I expect to gain you, sir. You have as good as 
told me that you enjoy my society more than Ruth’s; 
you have shown that you do by the way you have 
followed me round, and by plunging into every 
worldly amusement I have suggested. You will 
never become a minister. You will never marry 
Ruth. You are not good enough for either.” 

“ We shall see,” I said. “ Meantime do not let us 
part as enemies. Promise me that you will not be- 
tray my follies to Ruth. The past six weeks have 
been an episode in my life of which I am ashamed. 

I am going now to return to my studies like a man.” ’ 

“ I shall make no promises,” she said. “ My con- 
duct will be guided by yours. If you continue to 
make love to Ruth, I shall find it my duty to unmask 
you to her.” 

“Very well. Since you defy me, I defy you. 1 


MRS. WOODFORD 


181 


shall confess everything to Ruth and she will forgive 
me. A more long-suffering being does not exist on 
earth.’* 

She looked at me with the angry gleam of a demon 
in her beautiful eyes, and I bowed myself out. 

ruth’s journal. 

Frank has been here. He went first to father and 
made the most humble confession to him, won his 
heart by it, and then came and told me everything. 
I think there is great excuse for him. Juliet makes 
almost all men admire her, and Frank can’t help 
being pleased at her giving them all up for him. And 
if I thought she would make him happy, and help 
him to be a good man, I would retire and leave the 
field to her. But it would end in his ruin. I said I 
would take for my motto : “ Give and forgive.” So 
I must give Frank a good deal more love than he 
does me, and do it cheerfully. And I must forgive 
him the pain he has caused me, and do it generously. 
But I have talked to him very seriously and plainly 
about his duty to God. It is a small thing to have 
him wrong me in comparison with his wronging his 
own soul and sinning against God. And I had set 
myself up so high, like a silly child as I was ! 

MRS WOODFORD. 

Frank has taken our breath away by sweeping in 
upon us like a tempest. Something serious hay 


182 


PEMAQUID, 


brought him here, I am sure, but what it is I do not 
know. I am afraid Juliet has been making mischief 
between him and Ruth. I am sorry for both girls. 
One of them must be disappointed, and Ruth would 
bear such a trial far better than Juliet would. How- 
ever, it will be so long before he can marry either, 
that I need not trouble myself so very much about 
the matter. Juliet may meet some one she can like 
better, or twenty things could happen. Besides, I 
begin to feel that it would be painful to part with 
Ruth for her own sake. She seems to be everybody’s 
right hand. Her father needs her to read to him, 
now that his eyes begin to fail him, and she is his 
greatest comfort in every way. Juliet needs her as 
hair-dresser, waiting-maid, and general aid in all 
dilemmas. As for me, I really believe I am at- 
tached to the child. Her unvarying, sweet good- 
humor is such a refuge from Juliet’s pert and irritable 
ways'; she is so useful about t4ie house, so neat and 
thorough with her needle — in short, such a dear, 
stupid, innocent little thing, that it would be a posi- 
tive shame to let her go and leave us. Besides, she 
is not a suitable person for Frank. He needs a firm 
hand to control and guide him. His flexible nature 
absolutely requires the influence of a forcible one. I 
will find out what Mr. Woodford thinks rin the sub- 
ject, if possible. 

I said to Mr. Woodford, in a tone that implied 
that I knew all about it : 


RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


183 


‘‘What a pity that Ruth should be kept on pins 
and needles by Frank. Would it not be better to 
break this half-engagement before she is quite worn 
out?” 

He looked thoughtfully into the fire, took the 
^■ongs and arranged the burning brands with delibera- 
tion, and was silent. 

It goes against me to stand in the child’s way,” 
he said, at last. “ I hope I shall be directed.” 

And, of course, he took up his candle and went for 
** direction ” to that dismal, cold room of his. 

I wish he would take counsel of me instead. The 
matter is simple, and I could manage it v»^ith ease. 

By the by, as Juliet is now of age, I have trans- 
ferred the money in the bank to her and prepared a 
second note to her, apprising her of the fact. This I 
shall conceal, but in case of my death it will be found 
among my papers. This takes a burden off my mind 
My increasing respect and affectioti for my husband 
make me dread more and more the danger of becom- 
ing degraded in his eyes. If Julie! could only make 
a splendid match, I might transfer this sum to him, 
■)assing myself off thus for a prudent wife. Still I 
im tired of deception and almost wish I had been 
born and brought up in Pemaquid. Better austerity 
than undue laxity. 

ruth’s journal. 

I have been spending the day at M»s. Strong’s, 
helping her quilt. She treats old Father Strong 


184 


PEMAQUID. 


beautifully. But I don’t wonder, he is such a deal 
old man. Pie told me to-day, as I sat at the quilting- 
frame, a great deal about the beginning of his minis- 
try, sixty-five years ago. He was minister over one 
church sixty-three years. When he first went to it 
the country was little more than one great forest, full 
of savage Indians and fierce wolves. This seems hard 
for a man who had been educated at Harvard College. 
But everybody was used to hardship in those days. 
At one time the Indians carried off eight women and 
two children. This caused great fear and trembling, 
no one knowing whose turn would come next. They 
were especially cruel to children and aged persons 
whom they took captive. If an infant became 
troublesome its brains were dashed out. Feeble old 
men and tender women were driven like cattle over 
mountains, through swamps, through the snow in 
winter and the heat in summer. The people were 
kept in a very serious and godly state of mind by 
means of these calamities, and they were resolved to 
keep their community free from vice, so if a bad family 
came to settle among them it was warned away. They 
agreed to build Mr. Strong a house — he was not 
Father Strong then, of course — and they cut down the 
timber in cold weather and drew it to a three-acre lot 
and helped clear it, so that he could partly support 
himself. That same year there was a great earth- 
quake, which so frightened the people that a revival 
of religion took place. The next year he lost hh 


RUTH'S JOURNAL, 


18J 


cattle, as did many others, owing to scarcity of hay 
and deep snow. Then a wolf came and killed three 
of his sheep. About that time Quakerism began to 
spread, and the churches in all that region kept days 
of fastings and prayer on account of it. 

Soon after this he was married to a thrifty wife, 
who knew how to use a gun in case the Indians sur- 
prised her. 

In the year 1745 Mr. Whitefield came to preach at 
Falmouth. There was a large party opposed to him, 
and the whole parish was in a buzz about it. Mr. 
Strong heard him preach twice. Soon after this they 
had a visitation of worms that were fain to eat up 
every green thing. The Church fasted and prayed 
about it. The Indians becoming bolder, another day 
was spent in fasting and prayer, and the Government 
offered a bounty for every scalp brought in. On some 
Sundays there would be hardly any one at meeting, 
through fear of the Indians. And at times every- 
body suffered from scarcity of food. On one of these 
occasions Mr. Strong persuaded a man and a boy to 
go out with him to shoot pigeons. It was running a 
great risk, but the people were suffering and he was 
not afraid. They brought home ten dozen, which 
caused great rejoicing. 

At the time of the great earthquake at Lisbon there 
were two or three shocks in his parish, and a day of 
fasting and prayer was had. Of course they did not 
hear of the one at Lisbon till a long time afterward 


186 


PEMAQUID, 


About a year after that there was such a fall of snow 
that nobody could possibly get to meeting. The 
Selectmen ordered everybody who owned horses or 
oxen to go out and break the roads. The next sum- 
mer Mr. Strong had such a harvest of cherries and 
currants that he supplied more than a hundred 
women and some men. 

Then came the Declaration of Independence, July 
4, 1776. He lived under the reign of four sovereigns 
— Queen Anne, George I., George II., and George III. 
— and to see his country pass from a monarchy into 
freedom and independence. Not a soul that composed 
his first flock is now living ; he has survived them all. 

I asked him if he could suggest any reason why 
his life had been so prolonged. He said he had been 
strengthened by his early hardships, and had, besides, 
always been a temperate man, and that he observed 
many days of each year in private fasting and prayer, 
in no wise a detriment to his health, but, on the con- 
trary, he had no doubt it had been a blessing to him, 
keeping him down, mortifying the flesh, and giving 
him such sacred and blessed communion with God as 
kept his mind at peace amid all the incursions of In- 
dians, the horrors of war, the death of his wife and 
children, and of friends nearly as dear. I have not 
put down half the things he told me. Think of his 
condescension in tiydng to entertain a young maid 
like me ! And now he is everybody’s father, and will 
never be called Mr.” any more. 


RUTH'S JOURNAL. 


181 


Mrs. Strong says she should not wonder if he lived 
to be a hundred. People here in Pemaquid, unless 
they die young, are apt to live to be from eighty to 
one hundred years old, especially if they are pious 
people and live in that communion with God that 
hinders inordinate grief and makes a great sweetness 
come into the hardest lot. 

Oh, if my poor Frank were like this good man, 
whose heart was fixed upon God in his youth, and 
who has been a valiant soldier of the Cross through 
such a steadfast, holy life, and is now enjoying a 
peaceful old age ! 

And if I were, in my day and generation and ac- 
cording to my measure, as faithful to God, should I 
not carry Frank with me, and inspire him with my 
own devotion ? Ah, I must get the beam out of my 
own eye before I undertake to meddle with the mote 
in his] 


XVI 


*It*8 all mss, mss, anc stew, stew till you get somewhere, and 
then <T. s luss, fuss and stew, stew to get back again ; jump 
here <tnu sc.atch } aur eyes out, and jump there and scratch 
’em ir. agMn — that are life.” — M rs. Stowe. 

KEZIA GETS ANOTHER LETTER FROM PEMAQUID. 

TT beats all, mother, the knews Fve got ! I’m all 
-L of a toss when 1 think of it. They say that spark 
of our Ruth’s has undertook to spark her and Juliet 
both to once, and the Squire was that put out that 
he forbid him the house. And finally they got him to 
go away and study geology (as near as I can make it 
out) ; anyway, to learn to be a minister . And J uliet’s 
follered him, and made a mess between him and our 
Ruth ; and what with mails bein’ so scarce, and mis- 
understandings bein’ hard to clear up in writin’, 
there’s no end to the trouble. It’s jist like droppin’ 
a stitch in a stockin’ — it’ll run clear down the whole 
leg afore you know it. And they say our Ruth is 
gettin’ so peaked you wouldn’t hardly know her ! I 
declare. I’d like to send that ’ere Juliet and her spark 
to sea in a bowl ! What ? They’d get drownded ? 
Of course they w^ould get drownded, and serve them 
right, too ! ” 
dsa' 


FRANK'S JOURNAL. 


189 


Sings 

Ho, Mister Spark, I will engage 
To send you on a pilgrimage 
Across the Atlantic Ocean wid^. 

With Juliet Pickett at your side. 

Jump in, jump in, the bowl is cracked. 

And very shortly you’ll be wracked ; 

Repentance then will be too late. 

And you will sink and meet your fate ; 

There’ll be no gravestone at your head, 

You’ll spark no more when you are dead ! 

FRANK’S JOURNAL. 

It is rather hard upon me, that, accustomed as I 
have been all my life to find favor in everybody’s eyes, 
I am now held in disfavor by them all. Ruth has 
behaved like an angel ; but she can’t conceal that, 
whereas she looked up to me as a superior being, ahe 
has greatly, fallen off in respect, and consequently also 
in affection, for me. Then the Squire would be thank- 
ful if I never darkened his doors again. Mrs. Wood- 
ford eyes me with suspicion, and Mrs. Strong is no 
longer the hearty friend she was when I lived under 
her roof, and loved her and the children so. As to 
Juliet, she is now my downright enemy, and it is 
quite possible she wrote the anonymous letter to Dr. 
Robertson, containing the full list of my enormities. 
At any rate, he knows how I have wasted my time 
and money, what a self-indulgent fellow I am, how 
mad I am after pleasure, and has rec.d me such a lec- 
ture as I ne\ er want to endure again. He says he 


190 


PEMAOUID, 


will overlook my follies this once, but never again, 
and that he is very doubtful whether a man of so 
little strength of character has any right to enter the 
ministry. On the o^;her hand, he says my address u 
very winning, and would stand me in stead as a 
pastor, as my love for children and my strong sym- 
pathies v/ould, and that to preach Christ is the most 
favored lot on earth, and warns me solemnly to make 
full proof of my call to it. He has dealt with me as 
a father deals with a prodigal son, and. with the ex- 
ception of Ruth and her father, has been, amid much 
severity, kinder than any of my other friends. I owe 
him something for this. At the same time I shiink 
from the austerities of a clerical life as I used to 
shrink, as a child, from a cold bath. 

I suppose Juliet has gone back to Pemaquid, but 
do not know. 

JULIET TO “HAT** BOON. 

Dear Hat : 1 took your advice, and wrote a 
long letter to Dr. Robertson, setting forth the unfit- 
ness of F. W. to become a minister, and mailed it on 
my way home. It will reveal the young man as he 
really is ; he will be obliged to relinquish the idea of 
a profession for which he is just about as fit as I am ; 
and when that is once done I shall have him in my 
power. Pa Woodford will never let Ruth marry him 
if he is disgraced by such a man as Dr. Robertson ; 
I am sure of that. Keep your eye upon him if you 
can, and let me know what he is about. 


JUL/ET TO BOON, 


m 


While I was gone, Miss Ruth contrived to worm 
her way into my mother’s heart ; or, at least, into the 
place where there ought to be one. 

A horrid old man has come to Pemaquid to live — 
Mr. Strong’s father — and she pretends she likes to 
have him there, and Ruth pretends she loves him. 
The other day I had to go to the parsonage to bor- 
row a pattern mother wanted, and Mrs. Strong spent 
fully half an hour looking for it, so as to give this 
canting old creature a chance to ‘labor’ with me 
about my sins ! Did you ever hear of such imperti- 
nence ? I was so angry that I could hardly keep my 
seat. I have had plenty of hints before, from all 
sorts of people here, but never anything equal to 
this. I hate him ! What ..usiness has he to meddle 
with me? And then, when he could see as plain as 
day how provoked I was, he said : 

‘ Very well, my poor child. I thought you would 
take a kind word from an aged man, as kindly as it 
was spoken. Most young people do. I shall pity 
and pray for you as long as 1 live.’ 

Why should he pity me? lam young, and well, 
and strong, and handsome ; what is there pitiful about 
that, and why should he pray for me? Horrors ! he’ll 
be calling down fire and brimstone on my devoted 
head ! Such everlasting prayers as these people keep 
up ! How thankful I shall be when F. W. and I turn 
our backs upon Pemaquid forever! 


192 


PEMAQUID. 


FR.VNK WESTON’S JOURNAL. 

There has been a great outpouring of the Spirit 
here, and, thanks be to a merciful God, I have had a 
share in the blessing. I have renewed my vows to 
Him, have sought and found His pardon, and will 
consecrate myself to His service, as a minister of the 
Gospel, with a joyful heart. How hath my soul es- 
caped as out of the snare of the fowler! I tremble 
when I think of the lengths into which that beautiful, 
but unprincipled, girl led me, and wonder, in deep 
penitence of heart, why God did not say, Ephraim 
is joined to his idols ; let him alone.” Ah 1 I am so 
weak that all I need for my ruin is to be thus let 
alone. As I reviewed my past life, the pangs of hell 
gat hold upon me, and I could only cry out, O 
Lord, I beseech Thee, deliver my soul ! ” No earth- 
ly pleasure, however sweet, can compensate for such 
anguish and remorse as I have endured. 

My poor little Ruth 1 How I have troubled the 
depths of her heart ! I am sure that my infidelity to 
her God and Saviour has given her more pain than my 
wavering toward herself. As soon as I get through 
my studies I will seek some primitive little Pemaquid, 
where I can preach the Gospel, and where my be- 
loved wife and I shall go hand in hand in the work 
of the ministry, rear our children in the fear of God, 
and live to have them rise up to call us blessed. 

I must write to her now. 


MJRS. WOODFORD^ S JOURNAL, 


193 


ruth's journal. 

I have had a delightful letter from my dear — friend. 
It was full of love to God, love to His people, love 
of His service, and love to me! It has made me 
very happy. I read a little, a very little, of it to Mrs. 
Strong ; but it did not please her as much as it did 
me. She said he was evidently deeply moved, for the 
time, but that we must remember that his feelings 
often changed, and that she hoped I would rejoice 
over him with trembling. 

This gave my love to her a great shaking. Why 
should we not believe that God has answered our 
fervent prayers for him, and delivered him once for 
all? He paints a lovely picture of the life we shall 
lead together when he settles down with me in some 
modest country parish. 

I would rather marry a country minister than a 
king. I should like to work for our people, just as 
Mrs. Strong does for hers. To live in this world just 
to have a good time would be horrible. 

MRS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 

Pemaquid is fated to become a city, I really be- 
lieve. New families keep moving in, new enterprises 
are undertaken, new buildings are going up, and we 
are a prosperous community. I take the whole credit 
of this to myself. We have had the meeting-house 
enlarged, the ugly great square pews taken away 
9 


194 


PLMAQUID. 


and neat slips put in their place : it is carpeted, cush- 
ioned, and next winter it is to be warmed. What a 
march of improvement on winters we have shivered 
through, with nothing but the foot-stoves we carried 
with us to keep us from freezing! I have been the prime 
mover in all these improvements, and am called “ act- 
ive in the church.” My next act will be to persuade the 
people to sit through the long prayer, instead of stand- 
ing till they are ready to drop. But here I meet with 
opposition dire. Old Mr. Strong says it would be an 
insult to our Maker to sit while addressing Him. And 
as even the devil can quote Scripture, why should not 
I So I pointed triumphantly to the passage which 
represents David as sitting before the Lord. In re- 
turn they aimed at me so many texts about standing, 
kneeling, bowing down, lying on the face, that I was 
quite put to rout. However, I recovered myself, and 
declared I would rather kneel than stand. Symptoms 
of holy horror appeared. Papists kneel, consequently 
we must not. Was ever anything more ridiculous.^ 
As far as I was taught any religious service by n\y 
parents, it was to kneel when I entered church and 
count ten ; an act I have repeated here from force 
of habit, thereby making myself the object of no lit- 
tle merriment, it seems. 

HAT BOON TO JULIET. 

Your adored F. W. is in a highly devout and ele- 
vated frame. There has been a solemn revivalist 


MRS. lVOODFORr>^S JOURNAL 


195 


here. He has set people’s sins before them, turiled 
many unto righteousness, and healed not a few back- 
sliders. Among the latter is F. W. 

I went to Dr. Robertson’s church last Sunday to 
look after the young man, and he walked home with 
me, discoursing with great unction on the event that 
has occurred to him. I expressed deep interest, and 
he was so absorbed in his subject, that he could not 
help coming in to enlarge still further upon it. 

This evangelist is to be here again next winter, and 
you had better come and let him convert you for a 
brief season. Ha ! ha ! you can do it to perfection, 
and it will be as good as a play to look on. 

Do not let Ruth know it if you come here. Pre- 
tend you are going elsewhere. Otherwise she will 
build a Chinese wall round her beloved. 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

Frank has been here for a short visit, and has been 
so devoted to Ruth that I do not see the smallest 
reason to suppose Juliet will ever regain her power 
over him. When he is his best self he certainly is as 
charming and winning a young man as can be found. 
I do not wonder that all the girls in Pemaquid are 
pining for him. Ruth is radiant with happiness, yet 
very sympathizing and kind to Juliet, whom she 
pities, as she well may. Still, Juliet does not seem 
to realize that Frank is lost to her. She made her- 
sell very agreeable to him when he was here, and be- 


196 


FEMAQUin, 


haved in a meek and downcast way quite new to her 
and very becoming. 

This winter has set in with an extraordinary snow- 
storm. Every man and boy in town who could han- 
dle a shovel was ordered out by the Selectmen to 
make a path to the meeting-house. They dug a 
long; narrow path, barely wide enough for one person 
to pass, and we formed a long procession, Indian file, 
till we reached it. The men were so tired that half 
of them fell asleep. We returned home in the same 
way, the walls of drifted snow towering on each side 
of us like mountains. It gave me the strangest sen- 
sations imaginable to walk in this funereal way, on 
noiseless footsteps. Nobody could get into the meet- 
ing-house to light the fire till this canal had been 
dug, so we nearly perished with cold. 

ruth’s journal. 

Frank has made us a short visit, and reconciled 
everybody to him. Even Father Strong is interec<--d 
in him. We had ever so many delightful talks to- 
gether, two or three sleigh-rides, took tea at the par- 
sonage twice, and Frank spoke and prayed at the 
conference-meetings to the edification of everybody 
Old Ma’am Huso told me he talked like one inspired, 
and not long for this world. 

Juliet behaved beautifully. She kept out of his 
way all she could, and when she had to be with him 
was quiet and gentle as I never saw her before. So 


Wc formed a long procession, Indian-filc till we reached the meeting-house tg6. 










RUTU^S JOURNAL. 


197 


1 don’t see but my cup runs over, and I hope I feel 
some gratitude to God for all these mercies. 

Mother has changed too. Now that Juliet is pleas- 
ant to her, she seems relieved of care, or, at least, a 
good deal relieved, and I should not wonder if we 
settled down into a peaceable family. Perhaps Ju- 
liet and her mother are beginning to believe in God, 
and to care for their own souls, though that would 
be almost too good to be true. Only when I think 
how often I have prayed for them, and what an ex- 
ample father has set them, I ought to expect any 
wonder to be wrought. All that we should want 
then would be to have Samuel and Kezia come home; 


XVII. 


“ With devotion’s visage^ 

And pious action, we do sugar o’er 
The devil himself.” 

“ Be like the bird, that, halting in her flight 
Awhile on boughs loo slight. 

Feels them give way beneath her and yet sings, 
Knowing that she hath wings.” 

FRANK’S JOURNAL. 

I HAVE received by to-day’s mail a most touching 
letter from Juliet. She says she was so much 
struck with the change for the better in me, during 
my last vacation, that she has come to have faith in 
the religion I profess. This accounts for her meek 
and gentle manner when I was at Pemaquid, and 
with which I was very much charmed. She inquires 
whether the blessed evangelist of whom I spoke is 
likely to be here this winter, adding that if he is, she 
shall make a great effort to come and hear him. All 
this is indeed wonderful, but nothing is too hard for 
God. 

She has come, and I have had several conversa- 
tions with her. The poor girl is very ignorant of 
(198) 


RUTH'S JOURNAL, 


199 


divine things, and I am obliged to explain simple 
truths to her over and over again. As she has no 
other religious friend in the city, she naturally leans 
upon me, and I am only too thankful to help hei 
onward and upward. I am sure my dear little Ruth 
would feel no annoyance at our being together so 
much, if she knew what subject attracts us to each 
other. But Juliet begs me not to write to her about 
it, as she feels very shy concerning her sacred pur- 
poses, and speaks of them to no mortal but to me. 
This shyness is natural and becoming, and raises hef 
in my opinion. 

So I begin my ministry before completing my 
studies, and am surprised to find how delightful it is. 
If it is so transcendently beautiful to labor for one 
soul, what will it be to spend and be spent for 
many^? 

ruth’s journal. 

We are having another peaceable winter, as Juliet 
has gone to Boston to visit her friend Miss Hussey. 
She has evidently given up trying to wean Frank 
from me and attract him to herself, and she may 
meet with some one now whom she could like as 
well. 

Frank has not much time to write me now, as he 
says he is greatly occupied, in every leisure moment, 
in doing good. I am so thankful he is so hard at 


200 


PEMAQUID. 


»vork. It shows that the change in him was not a 
mere matter of feeling, but that his soul is truly in 
earnest. 

I am hard at work, too, only it isn’t hard. Mr. 
and Mrs. Strong find plenty for me to do in the day- 
time, and in the evening I read to father. 

MRS. DEACON STONE CALLS ON MRS. WOODFORD. 

“ I thought I’d just call in and have a little talk 
with you about Ruth. Our Josiah, he’s dreadful 
fond of her, but she won’t look at him, and he’s 
grown so fractious that there’s no living with him. 
Now if you’d just speak a good word for him, Mis' 
Woodford.” 

“ Why, what can you mean ? Ruth is engaged to 
Frank Weston.” 

“ I know some think so. But Josiah says' he was 
put on probation, and that he’s one of the kind that 
never knows his own mind, and may jilt her any day. 
And he thinks he is fond of your girl.” 

“ Oh, there’s nothing in that.” 

“ Well, now, what objection has Ruth to our 
Josiah? He’s a rising man, and can afford to support 
a wife handsome.” 

Really, Mrs. Stone, if Josiah wants to marry Ruth 
he should apply to her.’' 

“So he has. He has offered himself four times, 
and she has refused him. I never see anybody so 
obstinate. You need not laugh. It’s no laughing 


MJ^S. DEACON STONE. 


201 


matter. His pa and me used to take comfort in him, 
but he’s nothing but contrariness now. If Frank ever 
does jilt Ruth, and folks mostly say he will, won’t 
you speak a good word for our poor boy ? ” 

Oh, certainly ! With great pleasure. Being the 
child’s own mother, I can undoubtedly place her in 
your son’s arms the moment she falls out of Frank’s.” 

“ Well, now, it is hard to tell when you’re in ear 
nest or when you’re making believe. They do say 
your girl’s set her heart on Frank Weston, and if 
you’d favor that, Ruth would be left for Josiah ; don’t 
y ;u see ? ” 

Yes, I see a great many things. I do not expect 
you to see your son with my eyes, or with Ruth’s 
eyes ; but I advise you to cease persecuting that poor 
child as you and he have done. She will never marry 
Josiah ; of that I am perfectly sure, and the sooner he 
makes up his mind to it the better. We are in 
no hurry to part with Ruth ; she is quite young, 
and—” 

“You won’t do nothing to help my Josiah? Then 
I think you are very unfeeling. I might have known 
you was. I’ve always heard so. And Ruth she’s so 
obstinate ! ” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” 

“ What are you laughing at ? ” 

“ Why, ha ! ha ! excuse me, ha ! ha ! the idea of our 
Ruth, ha ! ha ! ha ! the idea of our Ruth being ob- 
stinate because she will not break off her engagement 
9 * 


202 JPEMAQUID. 

with the man she loves, to marry a man like *Siah 
Stone ! 

“ Well, I think you might be a little politer, and not 
laugh in a woman’s face that is a-worrying about the 
only son she’s got. I know his hair’s red, but so was 
his father’s, and I didn’t let that hinder my marrying 
him ; and he aint had much book learning, but his 
father hadn’t neither, yet he’s been promoted to be a 
deacon. And I don’t see what Ruth’s got against 
Josiah, no, I don’t.*' 

ruth’s journal. 

I have a long letter from Frank, which has over- 
whelmed me with the sense of my own poor spiritual 
attainments. He is soaring in sublime regions I have 
never explored, while I creep along away down here, 
crying, *‘God be merciful to me a sinner!” With 
shame and confusion of face I bow before Him, 
wondering at His patience and forbearance, and the 
many gracious discoveries He makes to me of Him- 
self — to me, so unworthy. 

Frank says he never even conceived of such bliss 
as he is now enjoying, and that he longs for the day 
when he shall tell to thousands the story of the Cross. 

Yes, thousands^' he says. ** I could not be satisfied 
with preaching to a handful in some remote village. 
I must become a city pastor, and win a multitude of 
souls.” 


JO SI AH STONE VISITS RUTH. 203 


JOSIAH STONE VISITS RUTH. 

“What have you got against me, Ruth Woodford? 
Vou look as if you’d seen a wild Indian.” 

“ I’ve nothing against you, Josiah, except your 
coming here so often, and talking to me as you do. 
And I have made up my mind to one thing. You 
shall not come here again ! I have put up with it, and 
put up with it, because your father is a deacon, and 
because I hated to do anything unkind. If I was 
married to Frank you would not dare to come and 
make love to me ; well, it is just as much of an insult 
now as it would be then.” 

“ It’s hard for a feller to be hit when he’s down.” 

“ You are not down. You have pushed, and pushed, 
and pushed me to the wall, and I’ve borne it ; but I 
can’t go through the wall, so I’ve had to turn round 
and face you. Y ou can’t bear to see me angry ? I ought 
to be angry when you trample Frank’s rights under 
foot. You wish I wouldn’t cry? Then go away, 
Josiah Stone. I forgive you all your persecutions; I 
forgive you all the mean, cruel tricks you’ve played 
so as to see me; I forgive you the unkind things 
you’ve said about Frank; but you shall not talk love 
to me any more. How can a man demean himself to 
a girl who — who — ” 

“ Hates him.” 

“ I don’t hate you, Josiah. But I do hate youf 

ways,” 


204 


FEMAQUID, 


To think of her caring so much for that sneak, 
that she won’t look at a feller like me, that — Hi ! if 
she hasn’t went out of the room in a jiffy ! Who’d 
*a thought she had so much pluck in her? Why, I 
thought she was a soft little thing that I should 
worry into havin’ me. It beats all ! ” 

FRANK’S JOURNAL. 

I know of nothing pleasanter than the life I am 
leading now. I see Juliet every day, and notes pass 
between us very frequently, and of the most spiritual 
character. I wish Ruth’s religious experiences were as 
remarkable as Juliet’s, but she has never had any other 
than the most ordinary ones. Juliet has great nobil- 
ity of character. She knows of things to Ruth’s dis- 
credit, but will not tell me one of them. She says it 
is enough that she can not live under the same roof 
with her for any length of time, and yet Ruth always 
contrived to give me the impression that she had a 
sweet, very sweet disposition. I could not think of 
marrying a girl with any other. I mean a naturally 
good one, or one sweetened by divine grace, as 
Juliet’s has been. 

Juliet grows more lovely every day. Her gratitude 
for the Christian aid I have rendered her has taken 
the form of a pure and exalted friendship for me. I 
return it warmly. The tie that binds kindred Chris- 
tian hearts together is perfectly beautiful. 


FRANK *S JOURNAL. 


205 


I have received to-day an illiterate, anonymous 
letter from Pemaquid, containing these words : 

You are welcome to Miss Spitfire. Take warn- 
ing from A Fiend. 

Juliet says the writer is Josiah Stone, and that 
“ Miss Spitfire ’* means Ruth, and pointed out the 
mistake of the writer, who undoubtedly meant to sign 
himself a friend. 

The warning was not without its effect, however. 

“Juliet,” I said, “you know whether this appella- 
tion justly applies to Ruth, and you ought to tell me 
the truth.” 

“ Don’t ask me to tell the truth,” she said, in a low 
voice. “ But I may say this : I have always pitied 
you for your infatuation about her. And now you 
see she has been showing herself to Josiah in her true 
colors.” 

“But why should Josiah undertake to play the 
friend to me, and put me on my guard against her ? 
He always hated me cordially.” 

“ Perhaps, then, he means me when he speaks of 
Miss Spitfire,” she said, laughing merrily. 

Ruth has played the hypocrite very cleverly, it 
seems. I thought if there was a defect in her char- 
acter it was want of spirit. I felt imposed upon, and 
that my love for her had had a chill. And here was 
Juliet, this beautiful girl at my side, full of sympathy 
and looking at me with moist eyes. 


m PEMAQUID. 

“Fortunately you are not married to her,” she 
said. 

“ I am engaged to her, which is the same thing,” I 
said. 

“ Oh, no. You were put on probation.” 

“ So I was.” 

And I always admired Juliet; and if she had been 
a religious girl I should have chosen her, of course, 
instead of Ruth. And with her remarkable experi- 
ences she would be more suitable as a minis-ter’s wife. 
“ Oh, Juliet,” I cried, “ to think how different things 
might have been. To think of the delightful wintei 
we have spent together — the happiest months of my 
life ! ” 

“ The happiest months of mine, too,” she murmur 
ed. “ Oh, Frank ! ” 

The scales fell from our eyes. 

I knew that 1 loved her passionately, madly. 

She knew that she loved me, as by a lightning flash. 

In a moment we were in each other’s arms, pouring 
out our confessions and protestations in a frenzy of 
wild delight. 

That was yesterday. This morning comes a bitter 
waking. I am engaged to two girls at once. There is 
a reaction from long, unnatural religious strain in 
both Juliet and myself. We are tempted to go to 
the devil. And with which of the two must I break 
off? To which shall I play false? “Unstable as 


RUTWS JOURNAL. 


207 


water,” Frank Weston, “ thou shalt not excel ! ” Oh, 
that I could take yesterday back ! 

ruth’s journal. 

Since I would not see Josiah Stone he has written 
me a letter, in which he says he has unmasked me to 
Frank. I do not know what he means. What was 
there to unmask ? But whatever it is, it may explain 
my not hearing from Frank for so many weeks. 

What a mercy it is that in this time of suspense 
and trouble I have the inestimable privilege of telling 
my story to One whose sympathy is always ready, 
and who never sends me away empty. If it is His 
will that Frank should love and trust me, no human 
beings can come between us. And if He sees it best 
to separate us. His will shall be done, even if it kills 
me. 


XVIII. 


•* For they h. c sown the wind, and shall reap the whirlwind.” 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

A fter an absence of nearly five months Juliet re- 
turned home triumphant, and went singing about 
the house like a mad creature. I went up to her room 
the next day to hear her adventures, for she never 
writes. 

“Well,” she said, “you see before you the future 
Mrs. F. W.” 

“ What nonsense are you talking, child ? ” I cried. 
“ I am not in the habit of talking nonsense,” she re- 
pli^d. “ F. W. and I have fixed the wedding-day, 
and you can be present at our nuptials if you like.” 
“And what about his engagement to Ruth?” 

“ Oh, Ruth ! Well, it won’t take long to sweep 
that little chip away.” 

“But Frank has no means of supporting a wife.” 

“ No, but his wife has means of supporting him 
till he has.” 

.“ What do you mean by this absurd talk? How 
can you, a penniless girl, support a husband ? ” 

“Penniless? Really! Oh, I’m penniless, am I ? ” 
( 208 ) 


MRS, WOODFORD'S JOURNAL, 


209 


she cried, laughing. “Gracious, how good it doe? 
feel to laugh, after my solemncholy winter! 

“ What do you mean ? ” I asked, beginning to feel 
some vague alarm. 

“ Why, is it possible that you have forgotten the 
precious letter you gave me to read — the letter in 
which you reveal the secret of the nice little dowry 
you had been hoarding up for me ? 

“ The letter I told you only to open in case of my 
death,” I gasped out. “Oh, Juliet, I wish I were in- 
deed in my grave. Undutiful, ungrateful child ! But 
your wickedness shall not go unpunished. I will 
withdraw every cent of that money from the bank, 
and then you will, indeed, be penniless.” 

“ It is a pity you had not thought of that a little 
sooner,” she returned, coolly, arranging her hair elab- 
orately, and trying the effect of one shade of ribbon 
and another. “ Unfortunately, however, I have spared 
you the trouble.” 

“Do you mean to tell me to my face that you 
have stolen that sum ; that fruit of so many years of 
sacrifice and sorrow ? ” I took her by her shoulders 
as I confronted her. 

“ Your language is not very choice,” she returned. 
“ I should hardly call it stealing to transfer my own 
property to a place of greater safety. You seem to 
forget that the whole sum was invested in my name.” 

At that moment, if the instrument of death had 
been in my hand, I should have killed her. 


210 


PEMAQUID. 


“ Ah ! ” she cried at last, ‘‘ I knew we should have 
a scene sooner or later, and wanted to have it over. 
But I didn^t think things would come to such a pass 
as this. There’s no use in going on so. If you write 
letters to me, and then put it down in your journal 
what they’re about, you can’t wonder that I read 
them. A precious specimen that journal is, isn’t it ? 
How I did scream when I read it, especially the part 
about being in love with Pa Woodford. Why can’t 
you listen to reason, mother? Wasn’t it better to do 
what I did, than be driven to do what people say you 
did, when you were threatened and torn asunder from 
the man you had set your heart on ? ” 

And she, too, believed the worst side of my story ! 
I remember uttering those words in a sort of shriek, 
and after that I knew nothing till I found myself in 
bed, under the ministry of tender hands. I started 
up and looked around me. My room was dark and 
silent, but I felt two hands busying themselves about 
me. 

“ Is it you, Juliet?” I asked, faintly. 

“No, it’s Ruth,” she answered. “ I wouldn’t talk 
anymore. You’ve had a fall, and got hurt. Juliet 
says you tripped over a trunk in her room. The 
doctor is down-stairs ; shall I let him come up ? ” 

I was too faint and dizzy to answer. The doctoi 
was soon at my side. 

“ Ah I things have improved since I left her,” he 
said. “ I think she will do well now. Keep her quiet 


MRS, WOODFORD* S JOURNAL. 


211 


and have no talking in the room.’* I heard him gc 
away; then Mr. Woodford came and sat down by the 
bed. 

“ I will watch your mother to-night,” he said to 
Ruth. 

She remonstrated in a whisper, but at last crept 
silently away. The room became darker and darker. 
I could hear my head beating and throbbing on the 
pillow. I moaned aloud. Mr. Woodford leaned over 
me, and I felt him applying ice to my temples. Then 
he raised me tenderly, and gave me water to drink. 
I gathered all my strength, and whispered ; 

“Tell me, am I dying?” 

“No, dear, no,” he said, soothingly. “Try to fall 
asleep. Don’t look so terrified. Nothing can hurt 
you. I shall be right here.” 

He began to sing. I remembered that Thanks- 
giving Day when he walked up and down singing 
thus to Mrs. Strong’s baby. It was the same hymn 
now, and sung as it was then. I fell asleep then. But 
when I awoke, with a start, he still sat there, thought- 
ful and tender, so tender that I could almost fancy 
that he loved me. 

The next day Juliet took his place at my side as 
nurse. For the moment she was subdued and awe- 
stricken. I saw it in her face — she believed I should die. 

Die / But there was something appalling in that 
word ! I rose up and fought against it with all mj? 
might. 


212 


PEMAQUin. 


“Don’t, mother! Don’t,” cried Juliet. “Do lie 
still. Mercy on us! I believe she is raving distract- 
ed. Ruth ! Mr. Woodford ! Do come somebody 
and help me keep mother in bed ! ” 

Mr. Woodford and Ruth came hurrying in. 

“ I am rested now, let me stay with your mother,” 
he said to Juliet. He sat down by my side and 
soothed and calmed me. 

I think that after this he was always there in that 
one spot. When I awoke, shuddering, from fearful 
dreams, and turned, with a cry, to look for him, there 
he sat ; always quiet, gentle, unwearied. Ruth was 
always at hand, too. But Juliet’s exuberant vitality 
wearied me. I was glad to see her less and less as the 
days and weeks advanced. 

When at last I began slowly to recover, I still clung 
like a child to my husband. 

When he left me I begged him to return as soon as 
possible. When he came I clutched at him with sobs 
and tears of relief; I who had been so self-reliant, so 
well-poised ! 

Ah ! into what infantine helplessness I had fallen I 

So the weeks crept slowly and languidly away. Mr. 
and Mrs. Strong came to see me and were full of kind, 
quiet sympathy. Mrs. Stone, Josiah’s mother, came 
sneaking in. eyed me cautiously, and uttered an 
ominous “Humph!” 

Being interpreted this meant ’ 


MRS, WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 


213 


Your day is about over, ma’am ! And I, for one 
am glad to see your pride brought down.” 

But my day was not over. There came a time 
when Mr. Woodford carried me down-stairs in hia 
arms and took me out to drive. It was on a dreary 
day in March that I had last looked on the face of 
Nature. Now spring had burst into leaf and bloom 
and verdure ; even Pemaquid was beautiful and radi- 
ant. Mr. Woodford was kind and careful, and drove 
with caution, often asking if I felt tired. And in 
spirit I was very weary. All this flush of blossom 
and beauty mocked my desolate, bloomless soul. 

Ah ! if Mr. Woodford only knew all the past and 
yet could lavish on me such kind cares ! And oh ! 
if that grim, terrible spectre called Death would 
never again look me in the face ! 

But no ; there could be, there should be for me no 
peace, here or hereafter ! 

Amid these gloomy thoughts health was stealing 
back to me very slowly, but every summer’s day 
brought strength with it. 

Ruth,” I asked suddenly one day, why have I 
an unpleasant association with the thought of Frank? 
Was there news from him on the day of my attack?” 

I have not heard from him lately,” she replied, 
and went steadily on with her work. 

I have some unpleasant association with hi? 
name,” I went on, confused ideas struggling in my 
mind. 


214 


PEMAQUID. 


She was silent ; but at last she said : 

“ I wish I could read well enough to read aloud tc 
you ; I used to read so much to grandma/’ 

I said I wished she would try it ; and she went and 
got the Pilgrim’s Progress.” I soon forgot the 
reader in the book. 

Mr. Woodford came in after a time and listened 
with me until it was time for Ruth to go to bed 
Every evening after this passed in the same way. 
The sound of her voice would finally put me to sleep ; 
and sleep was what I needed now. And the more I 
slept the less chaotic my thoughts became, and the 
more I began to recall the past. Who had irritated 
me on the day of my seizure ? Was it Juliet? or was 
it Frank? or was it both? I gathered up my con- 
fused memories to no purpose. All was vague and 
confused. 

At last I said to Ruth : 

“ I must know what has happened. Where is 
Frank, and what has he done?” 

I do not know exactly where he is,” she replied. 
Something tremulous in her voice made me search 
her face. Yes, I looked at her, really looked at her 
now for the first time in all these weeks. My illness 
and my thoughts, how they had absorbed me ! 

“ Ruth, he has forsaken you,” I said. 

‘‘Yes, mother,” she answered. 

There was no need of that meek answer. Ke had 
forsaken her, and so had her girlish beauty, hel 


MRS. IVG0DF0R£>*S JOURNAL. 215 

/ound, full cheek, her fresh color. She had grown old 
under my very eye and I had not perceived it till now. 

Juliet came into the room, half dancing, half run- 
ning. Ruth got up and went out. The contrast of 
the two as they passed each other was never so strik 
ing. Juliet, with life and hope all before her; Ruth, 
slowly and quietly creeping away from it. 

^‘Juliet, where is Frank?” I cried. 

‘‘Not too far off to be found when wanted,” she 
answered. 

“ How shockingly Ruth is altered ! ” I said. 

“ Yes, she does grow old. Poor little poke ! She 
actually has pined and moped after her beloved since 
his love for her took wing. Mother, what are you 
going to give me for an outfit when I take wing in 
pursuit of F. W. ? ” 

Then it all rushed back to me ! — our conversation 
in her room, the stolen money, my passion ! 

“ I wonder you have the effrontery to allude to the 
subject,” I cried. “ Do you know, wicked girl, that 
you were near causing the death of your mother? ” 

“You shouldn’t have taken it so hard. But you 
always were so fond of money. I am sorry to dis- 
oblige you so much ; but really I don’t see how you 
can expect Frank or anybody else to take me off youf 
hands with nothing but the clothes on my back.” 

“Frank?” 

“Yes, Frank! Who else? You know I have 
always said I should marry him.” 


216 FEMAQUID. 

“ He was engaged to Ruth. You knew he was 
engaged to her.” 

“He was not. Ruth can tell you so, and so can 
Pa Woodford if he’s a mind. They were put on 
probation for an unlimited period, and before the 
time was up, my gentleman changes his mind, and 
drops off.” 

“ It was the same thing as an engagement ; pre- 
cisely the same. It only wanted the mere form of 
Mr. Woodford’s full consent.” 

“ Make it out to suit yourself,” she returned care- 
lessly. “ It’s all one to me — only some morning if 
you wake up and find another bird has flown, you 
needn’t be frightened. I declare, I wish it was to be to- 
morrow ! What with your falling sick, and Ruth’s mop- 
ing, and Pa Woodford’s glum looks, and Mr. Strong’s 
horrid great black eyes staring one out of counte- 
nance every time one meets him, Pemaquid is getting 
to be intolerable. How you ever came to settle 
down in such a hole is a perfect mystery to me. But 
as long as you have ; as long as you’ve got to stay 
here the rest of your life, I wonder you don’t make 
the best of it and go to psalm-singing, and all that, 
like the rest of ’em. I declare ! if I was as old as you 
are, and had one foot in the grave. I’d begin to get 
ready for what’s coming — for I suppose something is 
coming some time, isn’t there?” 

I rose up and tottered out of the room. Must 
Saul become one of the prophets to preach up to me 


MJIS, WOODFORD'S JOURNAL, 217 


my duty ? Oh, if I only dared to shake the very life 
out of that girl ! Everything in this world is hateful, 
hateful ! And if I would flee from it, where shall I 
flee ? 

I tear my hair as I write, and curse the day that I 
was born. And Juliet! unnatural, thankless child! 
What of the day when you saw the light ? 


I 


XIX. 

* Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brothel 
sin against me, and I forgive him ? till seven times ? 

‘Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee until seven times; but 
until seventy times seven.” 

RUTH’S JOURNAL. 

J ULIET came home from Boston in great spirits. 

Mother had been talking with her up in her room^ 
and just as she was coming away she fell over a trunk 
and was dreadfully hurt. I can not think how that 
trunk came to be in the way. Juliet screamed so that 
everybody ran to see what was the matter, and father 
took mother in his arms and carriecj her to her own 
bed. We got her undressed somehow, though she was 
quite insensible. The doctor stayed here all that night 
and did what he could for her. He said but for Ju- 
liet’s word, he should call it a fit of apoplexy. Father 
said she was not one of the red-faced, apoplectic sort, 
but the doctor said that was all nonsense. A lily 
could have such an attack if it only had blood in its 
veins. He bled mother and cupped her, and I really 
believe he would have leeched her, but father de- 
clared he should not. I suppose the doctor knows, but 
somehow, the more he bled her the weaker she grew. 
She v/as weak and sick for a good many weeks 
( 218 ) 


RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


219 


Father spent a great deal cf time praying that God 
would spare her life till she had made her peace with 
Him. And in my poor way I did the same. Juliet 
was quite sobered down when she saw her mother 
lying there day after day in such a dull and heavy 
state. She tried to help us take care of her, but it 
never seemed to come handy to her to nurse sick 
people. Mother said she tried her by making such a 
bustle, and after a little while Juliet gave up the case 
to us and said she would see to things down-stairs. 

All the while mother was shut up in her room she 
was silent and sorrowful. Sometimes, after she began 
to get better, I would see tears in her eyes, and 
sometimes she would look at father in a wishful sort 
of way, as if she had something to say to him, or 
wished he would say something to her. 

It was well I had so much to do. For as soon as 
her first fright about her mother was over, Juliet told 
me she was going to be married to Frank in two or 
three months. She said she had not been to Boston, 
as was supposed, but had been at her friend s. Miss 
Boon’s, in New York, and had seen Frank every day. 
At first I did not believe her. But at last he wrote 
me about it himself. 

I never thought, when I began to write in this 
book, what a comfort it was going to be to me. It 
seems like talking about my troubles to somebody 
that pities me, while I am writing down what has 
happened. 


220 


FEMAQVID, 


When grandma died I felt as if I had been asleep 
and dreaming. Since then a great deal worse thing 
has happened to me even than that. I hope 1 do 
not murmur against God for sending me this trouble. 
But it must be that I do, else why am I so sad and 
sorrowful ? 

Frank and I were engaged to each other, I thought. 
Father had not said so in so many words, but he 
never hindered us from being together and corre- 
sponding, and Frank said of course we should be 
really engaged as soon as the period of probation 
was over. He said he loved me and never should 
change his mind about wanting to have me for his 
wife. I think now that I made an idol of him, and 
so sinned against God ; but at the time I did not 
know how my heart was set on him. 

Mother was very sick a long, long time. She 
needed a great deal of care. We never dared to 
leave her alone a single minute. If we did she 
would get to crying out and seem terrified, as if she 
saw some evil or frightful object. It took all father’s 
time and all mine to nurse her, for she would not let 
any one else go near her. It seemed strange that 
she hated so to have Juliet come into the room. But 
I suppose it was because Juliet always hit her face 
when she fanned her, and shook the floor when she 
walked across the room ; and then once she spilt co- 
logne into mother’s eyes and hurt her dreadfully. 
The reason she liked my nursing best was that I had 


RUTH^S JO URNAL. 


221 


learned of grandma what to do and what not to do 
for sick people. And then I like to stay at home, 
and it comes handy to me; and it doesn’t come 
handy to Juliet, because she never has been used 
to it. 

Well ! I suppose not seeing me, Frank got to think- 
ing less of me. It was out of sight and out of mind 
with him. And seeing Juliet — and Juliet is very 
handsome and knows so much more than I do — he 
got, by degrees, to liking her the best. 1 can not 
blame him. The only wonder is how he ever came 
to like me at all. And then, as he says in the letter 
he wrote me about it, we w^ere never really engaged. 
/ thought we were, but he says he never did. He 
said father decided to have us defer our engagement, 
thinking our minds might change. 

I hope nobody will ever know how much I cried 
over that letter. I think there are some things God 
is willing to have us keep secret from everybody else, 
if we honestly tell Him all about it. And I did tell 
Him everything — even the sinful passion I felt when 
I came to the place in Frank’s letter where he said 
he hoped I would try to like Josiah Stone as well as 
I had liked him. 

Father was ver}” sorry for me when Frank broke 
off with me. He gathered me all up like ' little 
baby in his arms and cried. 

Then he said : 

Poor little motherless thing!” in a chok'WQ sort 


2 ^ 


PEMAQUID. 


of voice, a good many times. That was all he said 
at first. 

But after a while, seeing that I did not seem to set 
myself about anything except nursing mother, and 
how I moped round, he said one day, all of a sudden : 

Try God, my child ! Only try Him!” 

I looked puzzled, not knowing what he meant. 

“ I know you love Him,” he said, “ but it isn't with 
all your heart. If you did you would be satisfied.” 

Father never says much at a time. It isn’t his 
way. Perhaps I think the more of what he does 
say. 

That night, when I went up to bed and had shut 
my door, I felt lonely and dreary. Somehow my 
little room, that used to look so pleasant, had looked 
dull and gloomy ever since I got Frank’s letter and 
after I had read it there. 

I read my chapter and knelt down. But somehow, 
though I kept saying words over, I wasn’t praying. 
Then father’s words came to me — ‘‘ Try God.” 

It was just as if he had said: “There’s no use in 
trying anybody else. Nobody else can comfort you 
now.” 

I burst out crying. I said, “ No, I know there isn’t. 
Nothing seems as it used to seem.” And then I 
began to pray in earnest. Sometimes crying got the 
upper hand and sometimes praying did. But be- 
tween them I got so near to God that I knew He 
heard me and saw me. I knew He pitied me and 


RUTH'S JOURNAL. 


223 


loved me, though I did not see how He could. Yes, 
I saw now what father meant. 

Let no one who has Christ say that all is lost when 
earthly friends are lost. Let no one forget that, “ as 
one whom his mother comforteth, so He comforts 
the stricken heart.’^ I know now how Paul and Silas 
sang in their prison-house, with their feet fast in the 
stocks, and how other songs can be sung in the 
night. 

Poor mother has her troubles, too. Juliet has wor- 
ried and harassed her almost to death. The very day 
after Frank sent me that farev.^ell letter Juliet said she 
hoped I was not going to make a time about it, but 
just behave in a sensible way and consider how much 
more suitable a wife she would make than I could. 
For she said I talked very bad grammar and was 
awkward in my ways. And as soon as mother got 
really well again, one morning Juliet was missing. 
We found a letter in her room telling all about it. 

She said she was going to some place where Frank 
was to meet her, and they should be married right 
away. She said she hated scenes, and was so afraid 
mother and I would get one up she had decided to 
slip off quietly without any fuss. And she said she 
was glad she could leave mother in such good hands 
as mine, and was sure I would make her a better 
daughter than she had done. That was very kind, I 
thought. 1 shall tiy to prove worthy of that opinion 


224 


PEMAQUID, 


and make mother believe I am truly her daughter 
given her by God to comfort her in this time of hel 
great distress. 

For she does seem almost beside herself. It seems 
Juliet has carried off some money and other things 
that mother says are as good as stolen, and that she 
never, never will forgive her for her undutiful be- 
havior. Of course there is some misunderstanding 
about it. Juliet never would do such a dreadful 
thing as to take what did not belong to her. Poor 
mother! She just walks up and down, wringing her 
hands, and saying, “ But I never will forgive her 1 
Never! never!’* 

Father does not say a word. He looks sorrowfully 
at mother, and steals away to pray for her. It is a 
great thing to have father s prayers. 

And in my poor way I pray for her too. My 
trouble was nothing to this, for Juliet was all she 
had. 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

It is three months since Juliet went away. Some- 
times it seems more like three years. When she stole 
away like a thief in the night, taking with her eveiy' 
cent of the money I had gathered together by years 
of economy and toil and care, my natural love, such 
as it was, turned into relentless hate. I said a thou- 
sand times I would never see her again, never forgive 
her. Mr. Woodford did not say a word, nor did 
Ruth. At first I hardly noticed their silence nor theii 


MRS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 


Sr25 

quiet sympathy and kindness. I could only go chafing 
up and down encompassed with rage and despair. 

But one day, when I had cried for the thousandth 
time, “ I will never forgive her,” Mr. Woodford’s si- 
lence attracted my attention. 

I turned to him sharply, and said : “ Mr. Woodford, 
why don’t you say something ? Why don’t you say 
you will never forgive her? Has she not robbed your 
child of her youth, and her good looks, and her spirits, 
and all she had to hope for? ” 

“ It is not for me to deny her forgiveness,” he an- 
swered gently. “ Indeed I do forgive her, with all 
my heart.” 

** It is easy for you to say so,’* I cried contemptu- 
ously. “You have no spirit or pride in you. For 
my part, I find it a luxury to hate even my own child 
when she wrongs me.” 

An answer seemed struggling to his lips, but he 
restrained himself. But as I stood confronting him 
his face was as the face of an angel. Its serenity and 
sweetness were the peacefulness of a victory that 
stood over against my defeat. 

“ What ! ” I cried again, “ you pretend that you 
have ever known such provocation as mine, and that, 
knowing, you have risen superior to and conquered it ?” 

“ No, my dear, I do not pretend to anything,” he 
replied. “ We all have our provocations, and we are 
all occasions of them to others. But we must forgive 

as we hope to be forgiven.” 

10 * 


226 


PEMAQUin. 


I was maddened by his quietness. 

“ Listen, Mr. Woodford,” I cried. “ If yoir knew 
but the tithe of my past history — but the tithey I say 
— instead of sitting there, smiling and preaching for- 
giveness, you would be spurning me from your door ! ” 

He got up and walked to and fro through the room. 

At last, coming close to me, and taking me tenderly 
by the hand, he said : 

“ I do know it. I know the whole. And with my 
whole heart I have forgiven you.” 

“ Since when ? ” I gasped, while everything became 
dim and confused before my eyes. 

“ Since many years,” he answered. *^Let us speak 
of it no more. Only bear with me this once while I 
plead with you to forgive as you would be forgiven.” 

I rushed from him to my own room and hid myself 
there. 

“ Many years ! ” 

“ Many years ” he had known and yet forgiven me ! 
“ Many years ” he had borne with my pride, my hard- 
ness, my insincerity ! “ Many years ” I had confronted 
him with my arrogant, self-seeking, relentless nature ! 
And he had forgiven me ! I lay on the floor and 
watered it with my tears. Shame overwhelmed and 
crushed me. Before the simple goodness of this man 
my learning, my talents — they shrivelled into noth- 
ing and vanity ! 

But out of the chaos of my thoughts one rose clear 
ind well-defined into living form : 


MRS. WOODFORD'S JO URN AD 227 

This is the religion of Jesus Christ / 

I said it to myself over and over and over again, as 
that long, lonely night of mingled agony ar*d ecstasy 
dragged itself on. 

We took breakfast next morning in absolute silence. 
Mr. Woodford only noticed my tearful face by re- 
doubled gentleness and courtesy ; Ruth glanced at me 
anxiously from time to time, but asked no questions 
even by her looks. 

As we rose from the table I said to Mr. Woodford : 

Can you conveniently take me to see Mr. Strong 
this afternoon ? ” 

He looked surprised. 

‘‘ You are not fit to go out,” he replied. “ Mr. 
Strong would come to see you, I am sure. Let me 
send for him.” 

“No, I prefer to go to him.” 

Nothing more was said. When we reached the 
parsonage Mrs. Strong came out to meet us, saying 
that Mr. Strong had gone to visit a sick person and 
would not be back for an hour or more. 

“It is Deacon Stone’s wife,” she added. “You 
have probably heard how sick she is.” 

No, I had not heard. 

Mr. Woodford asked me if I chose to wait until 
Mr. Strong’s return, and Mrs. Strong pressed me 
cordially to do so. 

I begged Mr. Woodford to leave me, and to send 
for me before night. 


XX. 


KEZIA HEARS FROM PEMAQUID. 

S AKES alive! Look here, mother! Our Ruth’s 
gone and forgiv’ Frank Weston, and they’re coo- 
in’ together like two young turtle doves. But ’twon’t 
last, you mark my words ; ’twon’t last. There aint 
no dependence to be placed on that good-for-naught. 

There, didn’t I tell you so ? That ere spark of our 
Ruth’s has been an’ jilted her wuss’n ever, and he 
and Juliet’s run away! I guess they’d have run 
tighter than they did if F d been around. Wouldn’t 
I have liked to be after them with a horsewhip, 
and have licked ’em out of town ! And as if ’twasn’t 
enough to rob our Ruth of her spark, Juliet’s robbed 
her ma out of all the money she’d laid up by scrimpin’ 
and pinchin’. Oh, what a faculty she had for scrimp- 
in’ ! She was the snuggest woman I ever see. And 
now that bad girl has run off with every cent. Tm 
proper glad. It served her right. Why, what can 
people expect when they bring up their children 
so sinful ? 

They say Mis’ Woodford went into fits when she 
found her money was gone. She had an idea she 


KEZIA If E AES FROM PEMAQUID. 229 


was a-savin* of it for Juliet, and then when it came 
to the scratch, she found she’d been a-savin' Df it for 
herself. 

What’s that? It aint consistent to be so glad 
when people gits into trouble? La, mother, every- 
body’s jist so, only they darsent show it out as I do. 
You’re as glad as I be, and the Lord He knows it, for 
He looks at the heart. Why, when the Widder Lar- 
rabee tumbled down on the ice, on the way to meet- 
in’, you was as pleased as parsnips; you enjoyed 
seein’ her heels fly up, and her specs fly off, and her 
hymn-book go rollin’ down the hill ; you can’t deny 
it. ’Taint in human natur’ not to like to see folks get 
their dues. Have I got to set down and cry like a 
crocodile ’cause Mis’ Woodford’s got what belongs to 
her? Who give her her dues? Wasn’t it Provi- 
dence ? And am I to fly out ag’inst Providence ? 

I shall have to spend a day of fastin’ and prayer if 
I cherish such an ungodly spirit ? Well, I’d rather 
spend ten days a-fastin’ and a-prayin’ than not to ha’ 
got this news about Mis’ Woodford. Nothin’ never 
done me so much good. 

I don’t seem to have no feelin’ for our Ruth ? Am 
I to cry my eyes out because a kind Providence has 
rid her of a whiffle-whaffle of a fellow that didn’t 
know his own mind two minutes runnin’ ? 

She’ll be feelin’ awful? Well, what of that? Her 
bad feelins’ll be sanctified to her. She 11 live to be 
glad on ’em. Bad feelin’s is a blessin’. 


230 


F EM A QUID. 


Mebbe Mis’ Woodford’s troubles’ll be blessed to 
her? Mebbe they will; /sha’n’t do nothin’ to hinder. 
Sings : 

Two birds as black as crows has flew 
Away from Pemaquid, 

And left a little snow-white lamb 
A bleating there instid. 

Bleat away, poor little lamb. 

To hear you grieves me sore ; 

But there’s a land where sighs shall cease. 

And sorrows be no more. 

Mis’ Woodford she may weep and groan. 

And she may tear her hair, 

It serves her right, and not a rush 
Does old Keziey care. 

I see the Hand of Providence 
A guidin’ of us all, * 

I see His stripes a failin’ fast. 

Upon the great and small ; 

I see Him turnin’ pitiful, 

And comfortin’ of Ruth, 

And givin’ back to that sweet maid 
Her roses and her youth ; 

I see the earth that swallered up 
Bad Korah and his crew, 

A openin' wide to swallow up 
Another wicked two ; 

So glory, glory be to God 
Who can’t make no mistake ; 

A better woman may His hand 
Of old Kezia make I 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

Mrs. Strong took me into her small sitting-room 
and said very kindly : “lam sure I need not tell you 


MRS. WOOJJFORn'S JOURNAL. 


281 


that we are fellow-sufferers. Frank was very dear to 
me and to my husband also. His wavering, uncertain 
course gave us a good deal of anxiety, it is true ; but 
he was a warm-hearted, lovable boy, and we expected 
a good deal from him. I could not have believed 
him capable of the unmanly conduct he has been 
guilty of. Excuse my speaking on the subject,” she 
continued. “ It fills my thoughts, and it is to con- 
verse on it with Mr. Strong that you come, I con- 
clude.’^ 

“No, I came on a more serious errand. Mrs. 
Strong, do you know anything of my past life ? My 
life before I came to Pemaquid?” 

She colored and looked embarrassed. But seeing 
me resolved to have an answer, she said, “ Do not let 
us talk of those painful things. I assure you it is 
many years since a word on the subject has passed 
my lips.” 

Many years again. I was weak and spent with 
watching through the night, and could not control 
myself. She burst into tears almost simultaneously 
with me. 

“ Oh, I have been so sorry for you,” she said. “ We 
have both pitied you so. We have so longed to speak 
a word of comfort to you.” 

“ Tell me, only tell me what you know ; what my 
husband knows, everything. And oh, Mrs. Strong, 
do not spare me. Tell me the whole truth.” 

“ I will,” she said. “ You remember a woman call- 


232 


PEMAQUID, 


ed Polly Hanson, who died here so long ago? When 
she was taken sick her mind ran much on past events 
in her history, and among other thirgs on what she 
knew of yours. The doctor, dear good man, finding 
some of the neighbors were getting hold of the story, 
came to consult Mr. Strong as to what was best to be 
done. We thought we could remove her to our house 
and keep her from seeing persons who would make a 
bad use of her revelations. We did so at once, and 
she died here. We allowed no one to enter her room 
save ourselves. Mr. Woodford heard rumors of what 
was gcfing on, and we had to let him question and try 
to silence her. There was some gossip about the vil- 
lage for several months after her death, but by degrees, 
seeing Mr. Woodford’s conduct toward you un- 
changed, people began to believe that Polly’s stories 
originated in her own brain, and the whole thing was 
forgotten.” 

And knowing what I was, you went on treating 
me with kindness and sympathy,” I cried. ‘‘And 
Mr. Woodford, oh, why did he not trample me under 
foot and cast me from his door ! ” 

She looked surprised and pained. 

“We only did to you what we would have had you 
do to us,” she replied. “And as to Mr. Woodford, 
oh, he is so truly a Christian man ! He could not 
fail to do the right and kind and beautiful thing.” 

I could only weep in silence. Where was my con 
tempt for this woman who had nursed a miserable 


MRS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL, 


23 ^ 


dying pauper for my sake. I said to her at last, very 
earnestly : Did Polly Hanson give you the impres- 
sion that I was guilty of crime?*' 

“Yes,” she said reluctantly. 

“ And may I tell you my story, exactly as it is ? ” 
She gave another reluctant consent, and I spoke 
the truth, as before God. 

' “ I was the only child of my parents, and they de- 
voted all their energies to preparing me for this 
world. I was educated at considerable expense, 

* and taught that to make a brilliant marriage was to 
be the business of my life. Notwithstanding their 
hopes and plans, I failed to do so at the early age 
they had expected it of me. The truth was, I had 
met secretly a young artist for whom I had conceived 
a passion, and was determined to give myself to him. 
I was only seventeen years old, and at that time had 
had no occasion to learn the value of money by the 

• want of it. I was not aware that my parents had 
spent nearly all they possessed on my education, ex- 
pecting a return in seeing me well established for life. 
They were beginning to feel the pressure of want 
when a rich old man named Grigs proposed for me. 
He was repugnant to me, but what with tears and 
prayers and dismal pictures of coming ruin, they per- 
suaded and frightened me into the marriage. For a 
little time my new position dazzled and pleased me. 
Then I began to grow weary and to yearn for some- 
thing real and substantial amid all this pretense of 


234 


PEMAQUID. 


felicity. That yearning summoned the young artist 
to my. side by some mysterious agency. I saw him 
at first only as a friend. He gave me lessons in 
drawing, with my husband’s knowledge and approba- 
tion. It was in a thoughtless, reckless moment that 
I let him persuade me to elope with him. I was will- 
ing to face any misery rather than the pain of not 
having him continually near me. In intention I sin- 
ned. But this woman, Polly Hanson, had her eye on 
me, and before I could carry out my plan she betrayed 
me to my husband. They both believed me to be more , 
guilty than I was, and I was cast out of my home 
disgraced. I could not go to my mother for shelter 
and sympathy, for she was dead ; not to my father’s 
compassion, for he declared I had killed my mother. 
People vied with each other who should cast the first 
stone. My fancied lover fled from the avenger to 
Europe. I lost husband, father, mother, lover, at 
one stroke. Then pride came t^^ the rescue. I hard- 
ened myself to meet my fate. It was easy to disap- 
pear from the scene of my disgrace, and under a new 
name to begin life afresh. I wandered away to a 
distant town, opened a school, and led a peaceable 
and harmless existence there. 7’eople supposed me 
to be a young widow. Juliet wa\ born there amid 
scenes of poverty and want. My school was broken 
up by her birth ; I was unknown and friendless ; it 
was nobody’s business to look af or me, and I suf- 
fered for the bare necessities of li/>. It was thus the 


MRS WOODFORD\S JOURNAL, 


235 


iron of poverty entered my soul. I conceived a hor- 
ror of it that wrought itself into my very being and 
became a part of myself. Oh, Mrs. Strong, I was 
only eighteen, and cares sit like a nightmare upon 
the young. I roused myself and rose above all the 
circumstances that dragged me down. I became cool, 
crafty, and circumspect. My beauty and my youth 
remained to me, my two staunch friends. I had an- 
other in my dauntless courage. So it came about nat- 
urally enough that I should marry again. I had lost 
all faith in men ; I was drifting about at everybody’s 
mercy ; I could have a dishonest home, but I scorned 
iniquity like that, and cast about me for an honest 
one. Into that home I carried nothing but misery.” 

“Stop!” she said. “You carried pain there, but 
not misery. No one is miserable who can stay him- 
self on God as Mr. Woodford can, and who can make 
hundreds of hearts sing for joy as he has done. If 
you had known him better, and trusted him, and told 
him your story as you have to me — I know his great, 
warm heart — he would have spared you all this de- 
ception and self-contempt. Yet more, if you had 
known God, and trusted Him, and left all your cares 
in His hand, whose heart is wider and warmer than 
all the hearts in the world put together, how much 
suffering you might have been spared ! But do not 
be discouraged. He has brought you down so low 
only to lift you up. He makes excuses for you that 
no poor human being can. Suppose you see Father 


236 


PEMAQUID, 


Strong, and let him comfort 3^ou ? He would delight 
to do it. He is the sunbeam of our house, running 
over with love for all God’s creatures. Will you 
go?” 

I said, feebly, that I would go anywhere and to 
anybody who could pity and help me. 

She took me to his room. He is very deaf, but 
Mrs. Strong made him understand that here was 
some one in sore trouble, and left us alone together. 

I am very sorry for you, dear child,” he said. 
“ I don’t know what your trouble is, but I’m well 
acquainted with One who does, and He’ll comfort 
you. You just go and tell Him all about it; don’t 
leave anything out because you’re afraid it might 
look small to Him ; nothing looks small in His eyes 
that grieves the souls He has made. You must go 
to the throne of His grace as bold as a lion and as 
meek as a lamb. You must remind Him of the 
promises He has made, and plead them before Him.” 

** Oh,” I said, “ I do not know how.” 

“ Dear child, I will show you how. Say to Him, 
*Be not far from me, for trouble is near.’ And He 
will say, ‘ Lo, I am with you always, even unto the 
end of the world.’ Say, ‘ Remember not the sins of 
my youth, nor my transgressions.’ And He will reply, 
‘ I, even I, am He that blotteth out thy transgres- 
sions for mine own sake, and will not remember thy 
sins.’ Say, ‘Turn Thee unto me, and have mercy 
upon me, for I am desolate and afflicted.’ And just 


MRS, WOODFORD'S JOURNAL. 


237 


hear His answer : ‘ As one whom his mother comfort* 
eth, so will I comfort you.’ Tell Him that He has 
chastened you sore. And He will answer, ^ I will 
bring the third part through the fire, and will refine 
them as silver is refined, and will try them as gold is 
tried.’ Tell Him that fearfulness and trembling are 
come upon you, and hear His answer, ‘ Fear not, for 
I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by name. 
Thou art Mine.’ ” 

** But I have been such a sinner. You never heard 
of such a sinner.” 

** Maybe not, dear child, but He has. Hear what 
He says about it : ‘ Thou hast destroyed thyself, but 
in Me is thy help.* * Blessed are they that mourn, for 
they shall be comforted.’ ‘ To this man will I look, 
even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and 
trembleth at My word.’ ” 

So he went on for hours, pouring in oil and wine out 
of the treasure-house of his memory, and touching 
the sore spots in my soul, as the tenderest mother 
touches her new-born child. I knelt down before 
this aged saint, and asked for his blessing. A more 
broken-hearted penitent never knelt to mortal man. 

He rose up, laid his fatherly hand on my bowed 
head, and said : “ The Lord bless thee and keep 
thee! The Lord make His face to shine upon 
thee, and be gracious unto thee ! The Lord lift up 
His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace! 
Amen.” 


Behold, all things are become new.’ 


ruth’s journal. 

S OMETHING like a miracle has taken place in this 
house. Mother has become a Christian. I do not 
know exactly how it began, but Juliet’s going away 
was a great blow to her, and at first she was very, 
very angry, and kept saying she never would forgive 
her. I think father must have said something to her 
about that, for all of a sudden she began to shut her- 
self up in her room, and when she came out it was 
plain she had been crying dreadfully. Since she 
came here she has never cried before that I know of. 
And besides crying, she seemed sort of broken down 
and tender, and would keep going to see Mr. Strong, 
and having him come here. If Mr. Strong was out 
when she went there, she would talk with Mrs. 
Strong by the hour together. That struck me, for I 
know she never could bear Mrs. Strong. 

At last she spoke to me all of her own accord. She 
said father had broken her heart by forgiving her some 


HU TIT'S JOUHNAL. 


239 


dreadful things she had done to him, and that that 
had set her to thinking. And growing sorrowful as 
she got to thinking, she went to praying ; and that 
made her still more sorrowful. She would tell father 
every wrong thing she had done, though he did not like 
to have her do it, because he said his charity was not 
equal to God’s. Well, if father is lacking in charity, 
what of the rest of us ? She says it is his life that has 
preached to her, and Mr. Strong’s life, and Mrs. 
Strong’s, and even mine! Who could get lower 
than that? One night she could not sleep, her 
misery was so great, and father was praying with 
her, and reading the Bible, and crying by turns, for 
father is just like a woman when anything touches 
him. Mother became just as meek and humble as a 
little child. It made me cry whenever she spoke to 
me. And she was so earnest about learning the right 
way that she even would ask me to help her. 

And now while I am writing this at one end of the 
table, she is sitting at the other end with the Bible 
before her, looking so peaceful and satisfied that I 
can’t believe it’s mother. And father takes such 
comfort in her! He has got one of her hands in his 
now, and I never saw him do that before. If things 
had gone smooth with Frank and me, perhaps this 
would never have come to pass. But Juliet’s going 
off with him seemed to be just the last drop pool 
mother needed to fill her cup with disappointment 
and bitterness. 


240 


PEMAQUID. 


We talk a good deal now of Juliet. Mother says 
it is all her fault that she has turned out so. She 
says she never taught her anything that was right, 
and all the wonder is that things are no worse. Poor 
Juliet ! I wonder she doesn’t write to us and let us 
know where she is. 

Mother does not write in her Journal now as much 
as she did. She says she does not need that comfort 
because she has so many others. But she has written 
a long letter to Samuel, telling him all that has happen- 
ed to us, and beseeching him to come home. I never 
knew till she told me that it was something she did 
that angered him and drove him away. It is a long 
time since we,‘anyof us, heard from Samuel, but 
father knows where he is, and thinks that after 
mother’s letter he certainly will come. 

Dear father seems so contented and happy now. 
Only now and then, when he looks at me, he clouds 
up and sighs. I must try to be cheerful and pleasant, 
so that he need not be grieving so for me. 

It is a good while since I wrote that. I have had 
too much to do and too much to think of to feel like 
writing. In the first place it is so nice about mother. 
Nobody would believe how changed she is. She is 
just as gentle and humble as a little child. She has 
Mr. and Mrs. Strong to tea just as often as father 
wants, and we have meetings here, and mother acts 
as if she had lived in Pemaquid all her life, and liked 


RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


241 


Pemaquid ways and Woodford ways. But Tve got 
something else to put down that is even stranger than 
that. We’ve got a baby here. It’s three months ago 
to-night that, just as we were sitting down to tea, the 
stage drove up to the door and a man got out with 
something wrapped carefully in his arms. We all left 
the table and ran to the door. I’m sure I don’t know 
what I thought, but I thought of everybody before 
I thought of Samuel, and when he came in and 
walked straight up to mother and kissed her, and she 
held out her arms and he put a baby into them, we 
all just burst out crying together. 

I don’t know how it was, but I suppose it’s being 
round so much among the sick, the first look I took 
of Samuel, standing there so pale and quiet, went 
through me like a knife. I knew he hadn’t come 
home to stay. I knew what hand had got hold of 
him, and that it wasn’t a hand we could snatch him 
from. Father and mother were too glad to see what 
I saw. Father only saw his son come back to him, 
and mother only saw that she was forgiven. I don’t 
know which of us made the most of a time over the 
baby. Father got it away from mother, and cried 
over it and laughed over it ; and I got it away from 
father, and ran into the kitchen and mixed a little 
?ream with warm water to feed it with, and got out 
what it needed from its father’s carpet-bag — for of 
course he was its father ; but if he was, where was its 

mother, poor little darling? 

11 


m 


PBMAQU'/jy, 


Such a happy time as we had round the table tha 
night ! Samuel got quite a color when he had hL 
tea and some of the bread and butter he had been 
brought up on, and I began to think I might have 
thought too much of his looking sick. He said noth- 
ing about the baby’s mother, only he told us he had 
come home for good, and that he was going to give 
the baby to me when he had done with it. That 
night I went up to bed as proud and as rich as a 
queen, with the little thing in my arms, and father 
following after to give all sorts of advice about it, 
and mother taking its clothes out of its trunk and 
filling all the chairs with piles of little frocks and 
such things. Samuel went to bed early, in his own 
room ; for mother, after she wrote to him to come 
home, had kept it in order with her own hands. The 
next day Samuel told us all that had happened to 
him since the day he had left Pemaquid. How he 
had gone into business, and been married, and how 
his dear little wife had made a new home for him in 
place of the one he had lost, till at last the baby 
came to make everything pleasanter even than it was 
before. But whether it was the climate he had taken 
her to, or what it was, he couldn’t say — the baby was 
only a few months old when its pretty young mothe^ 
died. At that very time came mother’s letter beg- 
ging him to forgive her, and to come home. So he 
had settled up his affairs, and taken his little mother- 
less child in his arms, trusting ‘t to no other care till 


RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


243 


ht fairly could put it right into ours. It was wonder- 
ful to see how handy he was with the baby, and how 
he loved it ; but it isn’t in nature for men to be con- 
fined with such cares, and by degrees I got my dar- 
ling all to myself, to lie on my arm all night, to feed 
and to wash and to dress, and to be just the same as 
my own baby — only father would give a good deal 
of advice, and would have the little fellow take his 
naps in his arms, and would teach him all sorts of 
bad habits by walking up and down with him by the 
hour together. And mother, who hates to sew, fell 
to making short frocks in place of the long ones, so 
that he could have room to kick and to grow ; and 
when we got him into them, and put on his shoes 
and stockings, it’s a wonder the bells of the meeting- 
house did not ring of their own accord ! 

Samuel looks better than he did when he came 
home, and does not complain of anything. Some- 
times I think I was too much frightened about him 
the night he got home. But then again when I hear 
his prayers in the family and at the conference meet- 
ings, I can see that he’s getting ripe for heaven, and 
won’t be able to keep away from it much longer. 
Father does not mistrust it. He takes solid comfort 
in Samuel, and consults him about everything. He 
wants to turn over all his business into Samuel’s 
hands; but Samuel puts him off from day to day, 
and nothing is settled between them. 


244 


PEMAQUID, 


MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

The repose I have been vainly seeking so many 
years has at last come to me. My burden fell from 
my shoulders as did Christian’s at the sight of the 
cross. After carrying it so long, I feel now like one 
who treads on air. Yet the remembrance of what is 
past ; the wrong I have done to others, and the sin 
of which I have been guilty, these must cost me life- 
long sorrow. But I bless God, who led my weary 
footsteps to this little Puritan village, and brought 
me under the influence of some of the best people the 
world contains. I can see now that their power over 
me, the power of their godly lives, began almost im- 
mediately. I resisted it with all my might ; but, 
blessed be God, its dominion became daily more 
powerful. Oh, that I had begun in the days of my 
early youth to walk in the path I now find so pleasant ! 
By what strange infatuation was I led to avoid the 
first steps that could lead to peace — repentance and 
confession ? 

Having now consecrated myself publicly and 
solemnly to God, and being resolved in His strength 
to live to and for Him, I desire also to be to my long- 
suffering husband all I can become for his highest 
happiness and best good. I desire to make his home 
the truly Christian, happy home he expected I would 
do when, in a moment of strange infatuation, he 
asked me to become his wife. May God help me to 


JlfjRS. WOODFORD'S JOURNAL, 24& 

Cleave to this desire till it becomes interwoven into 
my very being, and proves to be a part of myself. 

Our family has become somewhat re-united. Samuel 
has come home, bringing with him his little boy, a 
genial, healthy child, who is like a broad ray of sun- 
shine on the path of every one of us. Samuel is still 
like his father. I have the undeserved comfort of 
having his confidence, and, to a certain extent, his 
affection. He calls me mother, and talks with me 
frankly and fully about the past and the future. I 
suppose it is the early sorrow through which he has 
passed that gives him so light a hold on this world. 
Some of his expressions remind me of his mother. 
Ah ! I have been reading with new eyes that saintly 
record of hers. No wonder that I was stirred to my 
very foundations when, on that dreary Sunday long 
ago, I looked idly over its pages ! 

I feel satisfied that Samuel will only gladder his 
father’s life a little while. He seems to me very ill. 
Nothing we can procure tempts his appetite, though 
when he first came home he did, for a little time, :5eem 
to enjoy our country fare. We need Kezia’s skillful 
hands now. It is next to impossible to fill her jilace. 
All the girls rush into the factory, and Ruth has to 
spend nfiuch of her time in the kitchen. Dear, good 
child ! The baby, who is her special charge, is gradu- 
ally weaning her from Frank, and one now heius hei 
singing about the house almost as gayly as; ever 
Almost ! But there is a difference. 


246 


PEMAQUID. 


I hear next to nothing from Juliet. There is only 
one thing I can do for her, and that is to pray that 
God will open her eyes and touch her heart and bring 
her to repentance. She is my only care now, and that 
care I have ceased to bear alone. 

Take us altogether we are a happy family. I see 
now that real blessedness may be built up on the 
ruins of fancied felicity ; nay, may exist in the very 
midst of much outward trial. 

Ruth has gone for some days to take charge of a 
sick friend, and I am left to care for her precious baby. 
How differently I shall do my share of his training 
from the miserable one I gave my own poor child ! It 
was her mother who taught her to despise religion, to 
yield to her evil passions, to play the hypocrite. She 
was not born more depraved than other girls ; but I 
never cultivated her conscience, never taught her to 
pray, never led her to live for anything but herself; 
and she is living now on money obtained by me 
through mean economies and petty fraud. 

As I look into the baby's innocent face I recall a 
time when my baby's was as innocent. Oh, my poor 
Juliet; day and night I will plead for you till you, 
too, come to the repentance that, if it has its bitter 
moments, has thousands that are sweet. 


XXII. 


^ “I can call spir'ts from ihe vasty deep.” 

“ And will they come when you do call for them ?” 

Sfmetimes they do. 

MRS. WOODFORD TAKES TEA AT THE PARSONAGE, 

T WOULD not trust any one to tell the news, deal 

^ Mrs. Strong, and have come to spend the after- 
noon, and if you ask me to stay to tea I shall. 

“ Ruth had to give up her precious baby to me, and 
go to nurse Mercy Sutton. 

“ You did not know she was sick? Well, she is, and 
nobody would suit her but Ruth. I am not very 
handy with babies, but this little fellow is no trouble 
at all. I was sitting with him on my lap when our 
girl came in and said she was going to leave; she 
never could abide a baby, it made so much washing ; 
and she must look for a place where there wasn’t no 
young ones. I begged her to stay till Ruth came 
home ; but no, go she must, and go she would. She 
said she thought her health would be better if she 
went South. I asked her how far south, and she said 
to Kennebunk Port. 

** It was awkward, being left alone, especially as I am 

( 247 ) 


24S 


FEMAQUID. 


no cook ; but I thought I would do the best I could 
Samuel and his father would relieve me in the care 
of baby, and as there was no coffee for next day’s 
breakfast, I knew I must roast some in the afternoon. 
This is work I particularly dislike, for I never dc 
it well ; all my performances in the kitchen are awk- 
ward for want of early training in household duties. 

“ As I opened the kitchen door I stood spell-bound 
on the threshold. There sat Kezia, in her old seat, 
with the very checked apron she had on the day she 
left us, engaged in looking over the coffee which had 
just come in from the Deacon’s store. 

She just glanced up from her work on seeing me, 
and went on with it with the eye of a connoisseur. 

“ ‘ There’s stones enough in this ’ere coffee to build 
a tomb with,’ said she. ‘ The Deacon ought to know 
better than to send us such stuff. I’ve a good mind 
to carry it all back, only there aint none for breakfast, 
and it’s rather late to go and come this afternoon.’ 

“ I fell into her humor at once. If she chose to for- 
get she had ever left us, well and good. 

‘ I’m afraid there isn’t bread enough for breakfast, 
either,’ I said, nonchalantly, though it was with a 
sigh of relief I mentally welcomed the good old 
creature back again. 

“ ‘ I guess you won’t starve under me ! ’ she re- 
turned. * Don’t you bother about nothin’.’ 

“ And to be sure, there sat the big bread pan, cov- 
ered with its snowy cloth, as in the long-gone days. 


AT THE PARSONAGE. 


249 


“ ‘ I guess it’s as good a rising of bread as you’ve 
seen this many a day/ she continued. '‘But, la ! 
don t you stand there a-tiring of yourself ; I rather 
think I know the way about this house by this time.’ 

“ I went back to Samuel, with whom I had left the 
baby, and, snatching it from him, ran with it to the 
kitchen. Kezia dropped her coffee and jumped up 
from her chair. 

“ ‘ Is he your’n ? ’ said she. 

“ Her assumed character was all gone now. Kezia, 
with her own good, big heart stood before me with 
tears sparkling in her eyes. 

‘“I’m dreadful glad to get home ! * she cried. ‘ My ! 
what legs he’s got, now, aint he? It’s what IVe al- 
ways said, and if it was the last word I had to speak, 
I’d say the same: a house without a baby aint a 
house. I wouldn’t give the snap o’ my finger for it. 
Come here to your old Kezey, you precious little 
lamb, you. Oh, you and me, won’t we have times 
together ? ’ 

“ ‘ It’s Samuel’s baby, you know,’ I said. 

“ ‘ La ! you don’t say so ; I never heerd the like ! 
All I heard was you’d met with a change; and 
mother, she went to live with my brother and his 
wife ; and says she, “ Kezey, you go back and see if 
they’ll make up with you.” And so I came. But I 
never heerd nothing about no baby ! ’ 

“ By this time Samuel had come into the kitchen, 
and was laughed and cried over at intervals, while 


250 


PEMAQUID. 


between whiles the coffee was put down to roast, and 
had a vigorous stir every other minute. 

“ ^ Here comes Mr. Woodford ; he’ll be glad to see 
you back again, Kezia,’ I said. 

* I don’t want to see him this afternoon,’ she said, 
shrinking back. ‘ I can’t stand it to have everything 
come to once. That ’ere baby’s near about upset me. 
I can’t see the coffee, nor nothing, my eyes they do 
plague me so.’ 

“ I promised not to tell Mr. Woodford of her arrival, 
and she contrived to keep out of his way till the next 
morning at breakfast, when she came dashing in with 
hot biscuits, and her usual business air, and the 
salutation : 

‘ We’re most out o’ rye meal, Mr. Woodford, and 
you may as well get a barrel of flour while you’re 
about it ; I’ve only got a handful left.’ 

“ Mr. Woodford leaned back in his chair, and looked 
at her with mild surprise. For a moment he was al- 
most deluded into the belief that she had never left 
us ; that he had been dreaming, and was now but just 
awake. He glanced helplessly at me, then at Samuel ; 
our impenetrable faces threw no light on his perplex- 
ity. He recovered himself almost instantly, and said, 
with a smile : 

'“You made the last barrel go good way, Kezia ; 
it’s more than ten years since you asked for a new 

one.’ 

She smiled grimly and got out of the room ; and 


I^UTH^S JOURNAL. 


251 


when we burst into a peal of happy laughter, we 
heard her join in the chorus from the kitchen with 
right good will.” 

I am delighted to hear it all. The family is com- 
plete now. You’ll never have another care.’ 

“ No, I never shall. Kezia is getting everything into 
order, as of old. Her tin pans are almost as bright as 
silver ; you might eat off the kitchen floor ; even the 
tea-kettle sings a new song. Then she knows exact- 
ly what to make for Samuel, to tempt his appetite. 
She has thrown all the ‘doctor’s stuff’ out of the 
window, and is brewing decoctions of her own. I can 
not help hoping she may bring the dear boy round.” 

“ I don’t know about that. It seems to me that 
he’s got his mother’s wings tacked to his shoulders, 
and will fly up, some day, as she did. And why not? 
It is cruel to keep people out of heaven who want to 
go there.” 

“Ah, but you are doing all you can to keep Father 
Strong out of it.” 

“ Yes, I know ; it is such a blessing to have such 
an aged saint in the house. By the by, he has lent 
me a journal to read ; such old-fashioned spelling 
you never saw. Take it home and show it to Ruth, 
if you like.” 

ruth’s journal. 

Dear old noisy, bustling Kezia has come back ! It 
seems too good to be true. But there she is, rushing 


252 


FEMAQUID. 


about the kitchen, making stacks of good things^ 
screeching out songs till she makes the house ring, 
and just about distracted about the baby. Oh, my 
baby! How little I thought when I was pining my 
life away for what my heavenly Father took from me 
in mercy, that He was all the time preparing this 
beautiful gift for me. It makes me so ashamed ! 

Father and mother took tea at the parsonage last 
week, and Mrs. Strong lent mother a printed letter, 
or sort of journal, written by Father Strong’s great- 
aunt, on a journey she made ever and ever so many 
years ago. If it amuses me so much now, it will 
sound yet more quaint and funny to baby, when he 
grows up to be a man. So, if Father Strong is will- 
ing, I mean to get a blank-book and copy out some 
of the best of it for him. I mean to copy out for 
him everything I can get hold of that I think he will 
enjoy reading. I used to think I should have chil- 
dren and grandchildren. But I never shall now. 
Baby is the only child I shall ever have. That does 
not make me unhappy. Nothing does now, for I am 
satisfied with God. 

KEZIA GOES UP TO THE STORE. 

“Well, now. Deacon Stone, have I bin gone ten 
year, or aint I bin away a day ? It seems to me as if 
I hadn’t been away, and then ag’in as if I had. It 
beats all! Well, there warn’t no baby when I was 
here afore; I know that, and you oughter see our’ru 


KEZIA GOES UP TO THE STORE. 253 


^‘What’s that? All babies is alike? It’s no such 
a thing! Our baby aint like any other in the 'varsel 
world! And such times as we’re havin’ to our 
house ! 

“ (I want six nutmegs and a stick of cinnamon,) 

“ Why, it’s as easy to live consistent there now as 
down to the meetin’-house 1 

“ The Squire, his face it shines like Moses in the 
burning bush ; his prayers is all turned to psalms, 
and he’s as happy as the day is long. 

“ (A pound of raisins and a quarter of a pound of 
currants). 

And our Ruth, she always was as good as gold, 
but now she’s all the things you read about in the 
Bible ; not that I pretend I’ve ever see any of ’em, 
but I believe my Bible, every livin’ word on it, and 
our Ruth is all made of precious stones, jasper and 
sapphire and chalcedony and emerald and sardonyx 
and jacinth and amethyst, and all the rest of ’em 
that I disremember. 

“You believe it all, and could take your Bible oath 
on’t, and she's just the girl for your ’Siah? 

“ She’ll never look at your ’Siah or any other feller 
ag’in, not she ! She’s fit her way through her troubles 
like a soldier, and has come out victorious through 
Him that loved her. But she got wounded in that 
’ere battle nigh to death, and she couldn’t sur\'ive 
another such a scrimmage, no, not for all the people 
of the male persuasion in the world, except babies. 


254 


PEMAQUID. 


“ (Five yards of that ’ere calico). 

** (A skein of blue yarn and a ball of pipin cord). 

There’s no manner of use talkin’ ’Siah to her, and 
he’d better put his eye on somebody of his own kind 
’Cindy Muggs, or Cerinthy Wiggins, or Jane Ann 
Hobbs; they'd^XX of them have him and divide him 
among ’em like Turks ; or is it Turkeys ? I aint got 
much book learnin’. 

“ Air you sure you’ve give me good measure? The 
last pound of tea weighed light. Well, as I was 
sayin’. Mis* Woodford had dropped all her snug ways, 
and goes around among the widders, carrying of ’em 
such comforts as lone widders needs ; and she reads 
her Bible and ses her prayers and lives as consistent 
as any other member of the Church. 

“ (A bread-pan. Deacon, the biggest you’ve got. 
Mis’ Woodford said I could get a spic-and-span new 
one the fust time I come to the store. And I want a 
hrkin to hold meal. And a paper of No. 9 needles; 
no, two papers, one sharps and one betweens. And 
a pound of old Hyson. Lemme see, is there any- 
thing else? Oh, Mis’ Woodford wants a paper of pins 
and a gallipot and a piece of chalk and a broom. 
And our Ruth, she wants this phial filled with rose- 
water and two yards of flannel for the baby. And, 
la ! I came near forgettin’ the molasses jug ; here it 
is ; I’ll have it filled ; and that makes me think — I 
want a quarter of a pound of mustard-seed to put in 
my pickles and a quarter of a pound of ginger for my 


KEZIA GOES UP TO THE STORE. 255 


ginger-bread. And eight pie-plates and a puddin* 
dish ; and our bean-pot it got cracked and I must 
have a new one. The Squire’s helps have destroyed 
half the things I left in the kitchen. Yes, there’s 
one thing more ; a little reddin’ to red my fire-place, 
and a little blue clay to mix with it when I do the 
sittin’-room fire-place. You see I make a little differ- 
ence between the family and me. There, now, put 
up a Bristol brick and some rottenstone and sweet oil ; 
the andirons has growed dingy while I was away. And 
I tell you what, I pity andirons that is dingy when 1 
take ’em in hand.) 

“ Well, I declare ! how’m I ever- to git all these 
things home to onct? I s’pose I ought to sent Luke 
up with the sleigh. Never mind! I’ll manage it 
somehow. Good-bye, Deacon.” 


XXIII. 


THE JOURNAL OF THE GREAT AUNT OF ABIATHAR 
STRONG, DURING A TOUR FROM THE TOWN OF 
BOSTON TO THE CITY OF NEW YORK IN THE YEAR 
1704. ABRIDGED AND COPIED BY RUTH WOOD- 
FORD FOR HER BABY.* 


Monday, October ye 2d, 1704. 


BOUT three o’clock I began my journey from 



TT Boston to New-Haven, being about Two Hun- 
dred Mile. My Kinsman, Capt. Robert Luist, waited 
on me as farr as Dedham, where I was to meet ye 
Western post. I visited the Reverend Mr. Belcher, 
Minister of ye town, and tarried there till evening, 
hoping ye post would come along. But he not com- 
ing I resolved to go to Billingses, where he used to lodg 
being 12 miles further. But being ignorant of the 
way. Madam Belcher, seeing no persuasions of her 
good Spouse or hers could prevail with me to Lodg 
there that night, very kindly went with me to ye 
Tavern, where I hoped to get my guide, and desired 
of the Hostess to inquire of her guests whether any 

♦The original Journa' was published in New York many yean 
ago. 


( 256 ) 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


257 


of them would go with me. But they being tyed by 
the Lipps to a pewter-engine, refused to go. At last 
a man a Century old, I trow, arose and demanded what 
I would give him. “ Well, Mr. John,” sais I, “ make 
your demands.” “ Why, half a piece of eight and a 
dram,” sais John. I agreed, and gave him a Dram 
(now)’ in hand to bind the bargain. His shade on his 
Hors resembled a globe on a Gate Post. His Hors 
resembled a Ghost. 

When we had Ridd about an how’r, wee came into 
a thick swamp wch, by Reason of a great fogg, star- 
tled mee. But nothing dismay’d John; he had en- 
countered thousands of such Swamps, having a Uni- 
versal! Knowledge in the woods. After we left the 
swamp, we reached the house where I was to Lodg. 
But I had not made many steps into the house, ere 
I was Interrogated by a young lady, who Rored 
out : “ Law for me, who are you, coming here at this 
time a night ? I never see a woman on the Rode so 
Dreadful late, in all the days of my ’versall life. I’me 
scar’d out of my wits.” 

I stood aghast, Prepareing to reply, when in comes 
my Guide. To him Madam turn’d, Roreing out. 
Lawful heart, John, is it you? How de do! 
Where in the world are you going with this woman ? 
Who is she?” John made no ansr, but sat down in 
the corner, fumbled out his black Junk, and saluted 
that instead of Debb ; she then turned agen to me 
and fe’l anew into her silly questions, without asking 


258 


FEMAQUID. 


me to sitt down. I told her shee treated me very rude- 
ly, and 1 did not think it my duty to answ’r her un- 
mannerly Questions. I paid honest John with money 
and dram, according to contract, and Dismist him^ 
and pray’d Miss to tell me where I might Lodg. She 
conducted me to a little back Lento, wch. was almost 
filled with the bedstead, wch. was so high I was forced 
to climb on a chair to gitt to ye wretched bed that 
lay on it, and on wch I stretched my tired limbs. 

Tuesday, Oct. ye third, I set out with the Post and 
rode till two in the afternoon, when I stopped for 
Refreshments, and was served with Pork and Cab- 
bage, of wch I swallowed a Mouthful. I then took 
Another Hors and a Guide, who rode very hard ; and 
having crossed Providence Ferry, we come to a river, 
which they Generally ride thro’. But I dare not ven- 
ture, so the Post got a Ladd and Cannoo to take me 
to the other side. I had to be very circumspect, 
through fear of being upset and engulfed, sitting 
with my hands fast on each side, my eyes stedy, not 
daring to budg my tongue a hair’s breadth more on 
one side of my mouth than tother, nor so much as 
think on Lott’s wife, for a wry thought would have 
oversett our wherey, but was soon put out of pain by 
feeling the Cannoo on shore. Rewarding my sculler, 
again mounted and made the best of our w'ay for- 
wards. The Rode here was very even and ye day 
pleasant, it Being now near Sunsett. But the Post 
told mee we had neer 14 miles to Ride to the next 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


259 


Stage (where we were to Lodg). I askt him of the 
rest of the Rode, foreseeing we must travail in the 
night. He told me there was a bad River we were 
to Ride through, which was so very firce a hors could 
sometimes hardly stem it ; But wee should soon be 
over. I cannot express the concern of mind this re- 
lation sett me in ; no thoughts but those of the dan. 
gVos River could entertain my Imagination — Some- 
times seeing myself drowning, otherwhiles drowned, 
and at the best like a holy Sister, Just come out of 
a Spiritual Bath in dripping Garments. 

Now was the Glorious Luminary, with his swift 
coursers, arrived at his Stage, leaving poor me with 
the rest of this part of the lower world in darkness. 
The only Glimering we now had was from the 
spangled Skies, whose Imperfect Reflections rendered 
every object formidable. Each lifeless Trunk, with 
its shattered Limbs, appear’d an Armed Enymie ; 
and every little stump like a Ravenous devourer. 
Nor could I so much as discern my Guide, when at a 
distance, which added to the terror. 

Thus, absolutely lost in Thought, and dying with 
the very thoughts of drowning, I came up with the 
post. Soon we descended a Hill and I knew by the 
Going of the Hors we had entered the water which 
my Guide told mee was the hazzardos River he had 
told me off, and hee. Riding up close to my Side, Bid 
me not fear — we should be over Imediately. I now 
ralyed all the courage I was mistriss of, Knowing that 


260 


PEMAQUID, 


I must either Venture my fate of drowning or be left 
like ye Children in the wood. So, as the Post bid me, 
I gave Reins to my Nagg, and, sitting as Stedy as 
Just before in the Cannoo, in a few minutes got safe 
to the other side, which he told me was the Narra- 
gansett Country. We rode on in the darkness, the 
branches of the trees tearing my face, and my Imag- 
ination full of alarms. 

Now, coming to ye foot of a hill, I found great dif- 
ficulty in ascending; But b’ing got to the Top, was 
there amply recompensed with the friendly Appear- 
ance of the kind Conductress of the night. Just then 
Advancing above the Horizontal! Line — The Rap- 
tures wch the Sight of that fair Planett produced in 
mee, caus’d me, for the moment, to forget my present 
weariness and past toils ; and Inspir’d me for most of 
the remaining way with very divirting tho’ts — From 
hence the way being smooth and even, the night 
warm and serene, and the Tall and thick Trees at a 
distance, especially when the moon glowd light 
through the branches, filled my Imagination with the 
pleasant delusion of a Sumptuous citty, fill’d with 
famous Buildings and churches, with their spiring 
steeples, Balconies, Galleries and I know not what ; 
Grandeurs wch I had heard of, and wch the stories of 
foreign countries had given me the Idea of. Being 
thus agreably entertain’d without a thou’t of anything 
but thoughts themselves, I on a suden was Rous’d 
by the Post’s sounding his horn and I knew we had 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT, 


261 


reached our Lodg. Here I had a little chocolate» 
and betook me to bed, but no sleep could I get, 
through the Roreing of the Town-topers in the next 
room. I heartily fretted and wish’t 'urn tongue-tyed ; 
but with as little success as a friend of mine, who was 
kept awake by a county Left and a Sergent, Insigne 
and a Deacon contriving how to bring a triangle into 
a Square. 

Oct. 4. — At about four in the morning, set out for 
Kingston, and rode twenty-two miles without being 
able to bait our Horses. The post encouraged me by 
saying we should be well-accommodated at mr. 
Devill’s ; but I questioned whether we ought to go 
to the Devil to be helpt out of affliction. But we 
fared hard at his hand, only unlike t’other one, he let 
us depart. Leaving this habitation of Cruelty, we 
rode two miles further where we found tollerable ac- 
commodation, and poor weary I slipt away to enter 
my mind in my Journal. 

Next day we proceeded through the Narraganset 
country and about one in the afternoon came to 
Paukataug River, now very high — Stop at a Hutt 
where dwelt a guide who would conduct me over the 
Waters. It was built of clapboards, so much asunder 
that Light came through, everywhere ; the door tyed 
on with a cord, in place of hinges ; The floor the bare 
earth, the furniture a Bedd with a glass bottle hang- 
ing at ye head on t, an earthen cupp, a small pewtef 
Baspn^ a Bord wth sticks to stand on instead of a ta- 


262 


PEMAQUID, 


ble, and a block or two in ye corner instead of chairs— 
Having ventured over the River and rode on very 
slowly thro’ Stonington, Octobr. ye 5th I sat forward 
for New London where, being safely arrived at the 
house of Mrs. Prentices, between 9 and 10 at night ; 
waited on Rev. Mr. Gurdon Saltonstall, minister of 
that place, who very kindly invited me to stay that 
night at his house, where I was very handsomely 
Lodged ; and made good the great character I had be- 
fore heard of him, viz. : that he was the most affable, 
courteous, Generos and best of men. 

Oct. 6 . — I got up very early in Order to have some- 
body to go with mee to New Haven. A young Gen- 
tleman was provided by my hospitable entertainer, 
and wee advanced on toward Seabrook. The Rodes 
are very bad all along this way. Incumbered wth 
Rocks and mountainous passages, wch were very dis- 
agreeable to my tired carcass. In going over a 
bridge my hors stumbled, and I narrowly escaped 
falling over into the water. But through God’s 
Goodness I met with no harm. In about half a 
mile’s Riding I come to an ordinary, were well en- 
tertained by a woman of about 70 and vantage, but 
of as Sound Intellectuals as one of 17. We arrived 
at Saybrook ferry about two of the clock, and cross- 
ing it, stopped to bait and pd sixpence apiece for our 
dinners, wch was only Smell. About seven at night 
we came to Killingsworth. 

Sat. Oct. 7 — We sett out early in the Morning 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


203 


and befng something unacquainted wth the way, we 
ask’t it of a Young fellow wee mett, and he said wee 
must Ride a little further, and turn down by the cor- 
ner of Uncle Sam’s Lott. My Guide vented his 
spleen at the Lubber, and we soon after came into 
the Rhode, and about 2 in the afternoon arrived at 
New Haven, where I was received with all Possible 
Respects and civility. They are governed by the 
same Laws as wee in Boston (or little differing) thr’out 
this whole Colony of Connecticut, and much the same 
way of Church Government, and many of them good. 
Sociable people, and I hope Religious too ; but a lit- 
tle too much Independant in their principalis, and, as 
I have been told, were formerly in their Zeal very 
Riggid in their Administration towards such as their 
Laws made Offenders, even to a harmless Kiss or In- 
nocent merriment among young people. 

Their Diversions in this part of the Country are on 
Lecture days and Training days mostly ; on the former 
there is Ridings from town to town, and on training 
days the youth divert themselves by Shooting at the 
Target, as they call it, when hee who hits nearest the 
white has some yards of Red Ribbon presented him, 
wch being tied to his hat band, ye two ends stream- 
ing down his back, he is led away in Triumph wth 
great applause, as the winners of the Olympick 
Games. They generally marry very young ; the males 
oftener as I am told under twenty than above. 

There are great plenty of Oysters all along by the 


264 


PEMAQUID. 


seaside, as farr as I Rode in the Collony, and those 
very good. And they generally lived very well and 
comfortably in their families. But too Indulgent (es- 
pecially ye farmers) to their slaves, suffering too great 
familiarity from them, permitting ym to sit at Table 
and eat with them (as they say to save time), and 
into the dish goes the black hoof with the white 
hand. As to the Indians in the towns I passed 
through, they were the most savage of all the savages 
of that kind that I had ever seen. 

Being at a merchant’s house, in comes a tall coun- 
try fellow, with his alfageos full of Tobacco — for they 
seldom Loose their Cudd, but keep Chewing and 
Spitting as long as they’r eyes are open, — he advanc’t 
to the middle of the Room, makes an Awkward Nodd, 
and spitting a large deal of aromatic Tincture, he gave 
a scrape with his shovel -like shoo, leaving a small 
shovelfull of dirt on the floor, made a full stop. 
Hugging his own pretty Body with his hands under 
his arms, stood staring rowfl’d him, like a Catt let out 
of a Baskett. At last, like the Creature Balaam Rode 
on, he opened his mouth and said, “ have you any 
Ribinen for Hatbands to sell, I pray ? ” The Ques- 
tions and Answers about the pay being past, the 
Ribin is bro’t and opened. Bumpkin Simpere cryes, 
its confounded Gay I vow ; and beckoning to the 
door, in comes Jane Tawdry, dropping about 50 
curtsees, and stands by him ; hee shows her the 
Law, you!" sais shee, ^'ifs right gent ; dc 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


205 


you take it, 'tis dreadful pretty T Then she inquires 
“ Have you any hood silk I pray ? ** which being 
bro’t and bought, “ Have you any thred silk to sew it 
with?"' says she; wch being accommodated with 
they departed. They generally stand after they come 
in a great while speechless, and sometimes don’t say 
a word till they are askt what they want, which I Im- 
pute to the awe they stand in of the merchants, who 
they are constantly almost indebted too ; and must 
take what they bring without Liberty to choose for 
themselves ; but they serve them as well, making the 
merchants stay long enough for their pay. 

We may observe here the great necessity and benni- 
fitt of Education and Conversation ; for these people 
have as Large a portion of mother witt, or Sometimes 
a Larger, than those who have bin brought up in 
citties ; But for want of emprovements. Render them- 
selves almost Ridiculous, as above. They are gen- 
errly very plain in their dress, throuout ye Colony, as 
I saw, and follow one another in their modes. Their 
Chief Red Letter day is St. Election, wch is annually 
Observed according to Charter, to choose their Govenr, 
a blessing they can never be thankful enough for, as 
they will find, if ever it be their hard fortune to 
loose it — The present Governor in Conecticott is the 
Honble John Winthrop, Esq. a Gentleman of an An- 
cient and Honorable family, whose Father was Gov- 
ernor here sometime before, and his grandfather had 
bin Govn of Massachusetts— This gentleman is a very 
12 


266 


FEMAQUID. 


curteous and afifable person, much given to Hospital- 
ity, and has by his good services gain’d the affections 
of the people as much as any who had bin before him 
in that post. 

Dec. 6. — Being by this time well Recruited after my 
Journey, I set out from N. Haven with my Kinsman, 
Mr. Thomas Trowbridge, and about ii same morn- 
ing, came to Stratford ferry; wch crossing. Baited 
our horses, and wd have eaten a morsell ourselves. 
But the Pumpkin and Indian mixt Bred had such an 
Aspect, that we left it, and proceeded forward, and at 
seven at night, came to Fairfield, where we Lodg’d. 
Early next morning we set off for Norwalk, from its 
half Indian name of North-walk., where about I2 we 
arrived, and Had a Dinner of Fryed Vension, very 
savory. From hence we hasted towards Rye, walk- 
ing and leading our horses near a mile together, up a 
prodigious high Hill; arrived about nine at night, 
and took up our Lodgings at an ordinary which a 
French family kept. Being very hungry, I desired a 
fricasee wh was managed so contrary to my notion of 
Cookery, that I hastened to bed supperless. Being 
exceeding weary, I laid my poor Carkes (never more 
tired) and found my Covering as scanty as my bed 
was hard. Annon I heard a noise in the next room, 
the men complaining their leggs lay out of their Bed 
by reason of its shortness. Poor I made but one 
Grone, wh w^as from the time I went to bed, to yc 
time I Riss, wch was about 3 in the morning. 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT. 


267 


About seven in the morn we come to New Ro- 
chell, a french town, where we had a good break- 
fast, and in the strength of that, about an hour 
before sunsett, got to York. Here I apply’d myself 
to Mr. Burrough’s, a merchant, to whom I was 
recommended by my Kinsman, Capt. Prout, and 
received great Civilities from him and his Spouse, 
who were now both deaf, but very'- agreeable in their 
Conversation, diverting me with pleasant stories of 
their knowledge in Britain, from whence they both 
came. Mr. Burrough’s went with me to Vendue, 
where I bought about loo Rheem of paper, wch 
was retaken in a fly-boat from Holland and sold very 
Reasonably here. And at Vendue I made a great 
many acquaintances amongst the good women of the 
town, who curteously invited me to their houses 
and generously entertained me. 

The city of New York is a pleasant, well-com- 
pacted place, situated on a commodious River, wch 
is a fine harbor for shipping. The Buildings, Brick 
Generally, very stately and high, though not alto- 
gether like ours in Boston. The Bricks of some of 
the Houses are of divers Coullers and laid in Check- 
ers, and being glazed, look very agreeable. The 
inside of them are neat to admiration ; the wooden 
work (for only the walls are plastered) and the 
Sumerr and Girt are plained and kept very white 
scowr’d, as so is all the partitions, if made of Bords. 
The fireplaces have no Jambs (as ours have), But the 


2G8 


PEMAQJJID. 


Backs run flush with the walls, and the Hearth is of 
Tyles, and is as far out into the Rooms at the Ends 
as before the fire, which is generally five feet in the 
Low’r rooms ; and the piece over where the mantle 
tree should be is made as ours, with Joyners work, 
and, as I suppose, is fastened to iron rodds inside. 
The House where the Vendue was had Chimney 
Corners like ours, and they and the hearths were laid 
with the finest tile that I ever see, and the stair-cases 
laid all with white tile, which is ever clean, and so 
are the walls of the Kitchen, which had a Brick floor. 
They were making Great preparations to Receive 
their Governor, Lord Cornbury, from the Jerseys, 
and for that End raised the militia to Gard him on 
shore to the fort. 

They are Generaly of the Church of England, and 
have a New England Gentleman for their minister, 
and a very fine church, set out with all Customary 
requisites. There are also a Dutch & Divem Con- 
venticles, as they call them, viz.. Baptist, Quakers, 
&c. They are not strict in keeping the Sabbath 
as in Boston and other places where I had bin. But 
seem to deal with great exactness as farr as I see. 
They are Sociable to one another, and Curteous and 
Civill to strangers, and fare well in their houses. 
The English go very fasheonable in their dress — But 
the Dutch, especially the middling sort, differ from 
our women, in their habitt go loose, ware French 
muches, which are like a Capp & a head-band in 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT. 


269 


one, leaving their ears bare, which are set out with 
Jewells of a large size, and many in number, and 
their fingers hoop’t with Rings, Some with large 
stones in them, of many Coullers, as were their pend- 
ants in their ears, which you should see very old 
women wear as well as young. 

They have Vendues very frequently and make 
their Earnings very well by them, for they treat with 
good Liquor Liberally, and the Customers drink as 
Liberally and generally pay for it as well, by paying 
for that which they Bidd up briskly for, after the sack 
has gone plentifully about, tho’ sometimes good penny 
worths are got there. Their Diversions in the Winter 
is Riding Slays about three or four Miles out of Town, 
where they have Houses of entertainment, at a place 
called The Bowery, and some go to friend’s Houses, 
who handsomely treat them* Mr. B. cary’d his 
spouse, and Daughter and myself to one Madam 
Dowes, a Gentlewoman that lived at a farm House, 
who gave us a handsome Entertainment of five or six 
Dishes, and choice Beer and metheglin, Cyder, etc., 
all of wh. she said was the product of her farm. I 
believe we met 50 or 60 slays that day ; they fly with 
great swiftness, and some are so furious that they’le 
turn out of the path for none except a Loaden Cart. 

Having transacted the affair I went upon, after 
about a fortnight’s stay, I left New York with no little 
regret, and Thursday, Dec. 21, set out for New 
Haven, with my kinsman Trowbridge and the mair 


270 


PEMAQUID, 


that waited on me about one afternoon, and about 
three came to the half-way house about ten miles out 
of town, whdre we Baited and went forward, and 
about 5 came to Spiting Devil, where they pay three 
pence for passing over with a horse. We unhappily 
lost our way, and being overtaken with a great storm 
of wind and snow, wh. set full in our faces about dark, 
we were very uneasy. But meeting one Gardner who 
lived in a cottage thereabout, offered us his fire to sit 
by, having but one poor Bedd, and his wife not well, 
or he would go to a House with us where we might 
be better accommodated. Thither we went. But a 
surly old shee Creature, not worthy the name of 
woman, would hardly let us go into her Door, though 
the weather was so stormy none but shee would have 
turned out a Dogg. But her son, whose name was 
Gallop, who lived Just by. Invited us to his house, 
and I went to Bedd with a hot stone at my feet. 
Insomuch as I was cold and sick, I was forced to call 
them up to give me something to warm me. They 
had nothing but milk in the house, wch they Boild, 
and to make it better, sweetened it with molasses. 
Alas! poor me, to let it go down! 

Friday, ye 22 Dec., we set out for New Rochell, 
where being come, we had good Entertainment and 
Recruited ourselves very well. This is a very pretty 
pllce, well compact, and good handsome houses, 
clear, good and passable Rodes, and situated on a 
Navigable River, abundance of land well fined and 


AJV ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


271 


Cleared all along as we passed, which caused in me a 
Love to the place, which I could have been content 
to live in it. Here we Ridd over a Bridge made of 
one entire stone of Such a Breadth that a cart might 
pass with safety and to spare. It lay over a passage 
cutt through a Rock to convey water to a mill not far 
off. Here are three fine Taverns within call of each 
other, very good provision for Travvilers. 

Thence we travailed through Merrinak, a neet 
though little place, with a navigable River before it, 
one of the pleasantest I ever see. Here were good 
Buildings, especially one, a very fine seat, wch they 
told me was Col. Hethcoats, who, I had heard, was a 
very fine Gentleman. From thence we came to Hors 
Neck, where we Baited, and they told me that one 
Church of England panson officiated in all these three 
towns once every Sunday, in turns, throughout the 
Year, and that they all could but poorly maintain 
him, which they grudg’d to do, being a poor and 
quarelsome crew, as I understand by our Host ; then 
quarreling about their choice of minister, they chose 
to have none, but caused the Government to send this 
Gentleman to them. Here we took leave of York 
Government, and, descending the Mountainous pas- 
sage that almost broke my heart in ascending before, 
we come to Stamford, a well compact Town, but 
miserable meeting-house, wch we passed, and thro’ 
many & great difficulties, as Bridges which were ex- 
ceeding high & ver} tottering and of vast Length, 


272 


FEAfAQUID, 


steep & rocky Hills & precipices (Buggbears to a fear- 
ful female travailer). About nine at night we come to 
Norrwalk, having crept over a timber of a Broken 
Bridge about thirty foot long & perhaps fifty to ye 
water. I was exceeding tired out & cold when we 
come to our Inn, and could get nothing there but 
poor entertainment and the Impertinant Bable of one 
of the worst of men, among many others of which our 
Host made one, who, had he bin one degree Im- 
pudenter, would have outdone his Grandfather. And 
this, I think, is the most perplexed night I have yet 
had. From hence, Saturday, Dec. 23, a very cold & 
windy day, after an Intolerable night’s Lodgings, wee 
hasted forward, only observing in our way the Town 
to be situated on a Navigable River, with indiferent 
Buildings, & people more refined than in some of the 
Country towns wee had passed, tho* vicious enough, 
the Church and Tavern being next neighbours. 
Having Ridd thro’ a difficult River, wee come to 
Fairfield, where wee Baited and were much refreshed, 
as well with the Good things wch gratified our ap- 
petites as the time took to rest our wearied Limbs, 
wch Latter I employed in enquiring concerning the 
Town & manner of the people, &c. This is a con- 
siderable town, & filled, as they say, with wealthy 
people; have a spacious meeting-house & good 
Buildings. But the Inhabitants are Litigious, nor 
do they well agree with their minister, who (they say) 
is a very worthy Gentleman. 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


272 


From hence we went to Stratford, the next Town, 
in which I observed but few houses, and those not 
ver>' good ones. But the people that I conversed 
with were civill and good-natured. Here we staid 
till late at night, being to cross a Dangerous River 
ferry, the River at that time full of Ice ; but after 
about four hours waiting, with great difficulty wee 
got over. Being got to Milford, it being late in the 
night, I could go no further ; my fellow-travailer go- 
ing forward, I was invited to Lodg at Mrs. , a 

very kind and civill Gentlewoman, by whom I was 
handsomely entertained till the next night. The 
people here go very plain in their apparel and seem 
to be very grave and serious. This is a Seaport place 
and accommodated with a Good Harbor. But I had 
not opportunity to make particular observations be- 
cause it was Sabbath day. 

Dec, 24. — This evening I set out with the Gentle- 
man’s son who she very civilly offered to go with me 
when she saw no perswasion would cause me to stay, 
which she pressingly desired, and crossing a ferry, 
having but nine miles to New Haven, in a short time 
arrived there and was kindly received and well ac- 
commodated amongst my Friends and Relations. 

Jan, 6. — Being now well Recruited and fitt for 
business I discoursed the persons I was concerned 
with, that we might finnish in order to my return to 
Boston. They delayed as they had hitherto done, 

hoping to tire my Patience. But I was resolute to stay 
12 * 


274 


PEMAQUID. 


and See an End to the matter, let it be never so much 
to my disadvantage. So January 9th they come agvVC 
and promise the Wednesday following to go through 
with the distribution of the Estate which they delayed 
till Thursday and then come with new amusements. 
But at length by the mediation of that holy good Gem 
tlman, the Rev. Mr. James Pierpont, the minister of 
New Haven, and with the advice and assistance ol 
our Good friends, we come to an accomodation and 
distribution, which being finished, though not till 
February, the man that waited on me to York taking 
the charge of me, I sit out for Boston. We went 
from New Haven upon the ice (the ferry being not 
passable thereby) and the Rev. Mr. Pierpont with 
Madam Prout, Cuzin Trowbridge and divers others 
were taking leave. We went onward without any- 
thing Remarkable till wee come to New London and 
Lodged again at Mr. Saltorstalls, and here I dismist 
my Guide, and my Generous entertainer provided me 
Mr. Samuel Rogers of that state to go home with 
me. I stayed a day here Longer than I intended b)* 
the command of the Honble Govenor Winthrop to 
stay and take a supper with him, whose wonderful 
civility I may not omitt. The next morning I crossc 
ed ye Ferry to Groton, having had the honor of thf 
Company of Madam Livingston (who is the Govenors 
Daughter) and Mary Christophers and divers otheia 
to the boat — and that night Lodgd at Stoningtop 
and had Rost Beef and pumpkin sause for supper 


AN ANTIQUE DOCUMENT 


275 


The next night at Haven’s I had Rost fowle, and the 
next day we come to a river which by Reason of ye 
Freshets coming down was swell’d so high wee feard 
it impassable and the rapid stream was very terryfy- 
ing. However we went over and that in a small 
Cannoo. Mr. Rogers assuring me of his good con- 
duct, I after a stay of near an howr on the shore for 
consultation went into the Cannoo, and Mr. Rogers 
paddled about loo yards up the Creek by the shore 
side, turned into the swift stream and dexterously 
steering her in a moment wee come to the other side 
as swiftly passing as an arrow shott out of the Bow 
by a strong arm — I staid on ye shore till hee returned 
to fetch our horses, which he caused to swim over, 
himself bringing the furniture in the Cannoo. But it 
is past my skill to express the exceeding fright all 
their transactions formed in me. We were now in 
the colony of Massachusetts. There I mett Capt. 
John Richards of Boston who was going home, So 
being very glad of his Company we Rode something 
harder than hitherto, and missing my way going up a 
very steep Hill, my horse dropt down under me as 
Dead, and I was obliged to get another Hors, resolv- 
ing for Boston that night if possible. But many mis- 
haps, and the people much discouraging us, it so 
wrought on me being tired and dispirited, that I 
agreed to Lodg at Dedham that night wch we did, 
and the next day, being March 3d, wee got safe home 
to Boston, where I found my aged and tender mothci 


276 


PEMAQUID. 


and my Dear and only Child in good health with 
open arms ready to receive me, and my Kind relations 
and friends flocking to welcome mee, and hear the 
story of my transactions and travails, I having this 
day bin five months from home, and now I cannot 
fully express my Joy and Satisfaction, But desire sin- 
cerely to adort: my Great Benefajtc' fo^ thus gra- 
ciously carrying lortL arici returniiig in safety. His un- 
worthy Handmaid 


XXIV. 


** Death is another life. We bow our heads 
At going out, wc think, and enter straight 
Another golden chamber of the King’s 
Larger than this we leave, and lovelier.” 

ruth’s journal. 

I T is a great while since I have written anything. I 
kept thinking I would set down what I knew I 
should want to remember, and then I would put it 
off. 

After Kezia came back and relieved mother of all 
care in the kitchen, things seemed to get into the old 
track. All the old ways father used to have, and 
that he took such comfort in, came of themselves. 
Mother joined in with him, heart and hand. They 
went round together, carrying good things, and giv- 
ing tracts and little books ; speaking a kind word 
here and a kind word there ; and Kezia kept them in 
everything they wanted for sick people and poor 
folks, no matter whether it was day or night. I nevei 
saw father so happy. Mother seemed very happy, 
too ; though I don’t think she ever forgot for one 
minute that she had caused him a good deal ol 
trouble and sorrow. I know by experience that you 
can have pain and pleasure both at once. 

( 277 ^ 


278 


PEMAQUin. 


I thought nobody noticed that, in the midst of ah 
this peace and content, Samuel was growing feebler 
and weaker every day. 

But one morning when Kezia and I were trying to 
get something for Samuel’s breakfast — it was a good 
while since he’d been up to eat his breakfast with the 
rest of us — Kezia all of a sudden threw down what she 
had in her hands, and burst out crying. 

“ I verily believe you’re all as blind as bats! ” she 
sobbed. Nobody aint got no eyes but me. Me as 
nussed his ma when she was a-going, and how there 
wasn’t nothing you could coax her to eat ! ” 

“ What do you mean, Kezia ? ” I asked. I was all 
of a tremble, and wanted to hear, and yet didn’t want 
to hear. 

No, nobody aint got no eyes but me,” she re- 
peated. 

“ Kezia,” I said, you’ve forgotten that I was at 
grandma’s a good many years. I got into the way 
of watching the looks of sick folks there ; and after 
I came home I hadn’t anything special to do, and 
there were things that made me kind of sore and sor- 
rowful, so that I got into the way of going round 
among sick folks ; and the moment I saw Samuel 
the night he came home, I felt — well, I felt as I do 
now.” And with that I burst out crying. 

“ And why aint you said nothing ?” cried she. “ If 
you’d a spoke I could have spoke, and not jist kep 
shut up till I burst into forty pieces 1 And who’s to 


RUTH S JOURNAL. 


27y 


tell his pa, I want to know ? You needn’t ask me to 
do it, for I’d sooner be pitched into the mill-pond ! 
So there ! ’* 

No, I’ll tell father, Kezia. Father’s heart is a 
good deal set on Samuel, I know. But it’s more set on 
God ; I know that. Oh, Kezia, when you’re in trouble 
it does make such a difference whether you love Him 
or not ! ” 

Yes, it does,” she said, wiping her eyes. ‘^And 
on the strength of that I’ll beat him up a raw egg, 
with a spoonful of brandy, and see if I can make him 
swallow it. La ! the raw eggs I made your ma worry 
down ! It’s a wonder they didn’t bring her to ! ” 

That night after tea father went to his room as 
usual. I watched for him when he opened the door 
to come out. It’s a good time to tell people bad news 
when they’ve been praying. 

I went in and shut the door. He saw how my lips 
quivered, and that 1 couldn’t get out a word. 

What is it, dear ? ” he said. “ Frank ? ” 

No, no, father. Samuel.” 

Yes, dear, I know,” he said. “ We’ve got to let 
Samuel go.” 

“ Oh, father ! But I feel such a weight gone, now 
that I’ve found out that you know it ! ” 

“ I was not likely not to know,” he said. “ I only 
had you two.” 

And then, for two or three minutes, I thought his 
heart was breaking. 


280 


PEMAQUID, 


“ We have everything to be thankful for,” he said 
at last. “ We have Samuel at home with us, and can 
do everything for his comfort. Then the change in 
your mother! Think of that 1 And then look at the 
way God has ripened him for heaven ! ” 

Then we knelt down, and gave ourselves and Samuel 
and everything we had to God. We kept back nothing, 
nothing. 

Oh, how strong I felt after that prayer 1 
And we needed all our strength, for it was days, 
and not weeks and months, that Samuel was spared 
to us. 

He did not suffer any pain, but would lie quietly 
for hours, lost in his own thoughts. Mother was a 
great comfort to him, and to us all, giving herself no 
rest day or night, exactly as if he were her own son. 
And no tongue can tell how all that was tenderest 
and best in Kezia came out then. Sometimes his 
mind would wander, and he would fancy he was a lit- 
tle boy, and would coax her to sing the queer old 
songs she used to sing to us when we were children, 
and thought her one of the wonders of the world. 
Then she is stronger than father even, and would 
snatch him out of bed, and hold him in her arms, 
and rock him just as she did when he was a baby 
while mother and I put on fresh sheets and pillow- 
cases. I had entirely forgotten the song we used to 
call “ Kezia’s glory-song,” because she stretched out 
the last words all the way to the meeting-house : 


RUTWS JOURNAL. 


281 . 


“ Listen, lad, and listen, lass. 

To my wondrous story, 

Till you clap your hands and shout, 
Glory, glory, glory ! 

On a cold and irosty night 

Shepherd’s watched their sheep, 
Lest the bears and lions come 
And eat them in their sleep. 
Suddenly they saw a light 
Shinin’ in the sRy, 

* Oh, what’s that ? ’ they all cried out. 

* Brothers, let us fly ! ’ 

But a great white angel 
Came upon the wing. 

Said : ‘ Good tidings, shepherds. 
Unto you 1 bring; 

Yea, I bring you tidings 
Wonderful and true. 

For a little Babe is bom. 

And is born for you ! ’ 

‘ What ! for us poor shepherds rough 
Is it bom indeed ? 

Can we men an infant nurse. 
Understand its need ?* 

* Nay, thou foolish fellow, 

He is Christ the Lord, 

He for all your wants shall car^ 
Grace and peace afford. 

You shall find the Infant 
In a manger laid : 

Go and see this mighty sight, 

Do not be afraid.’ 

Suddenly above their heads 
Other angels came, 

Singin’, Glor>' be to God, 

Blessed be His name ! 


282 


PEMAQUID. 


Glory, glory be to God, 

Glory, glory, glory ! 

Spread the story, spread the news, 

Sing the wondrous story ! 

Then the angels flew away. 

Singing as they flew. 

And the shepherds stood and cried, 

* Is the story true ? 

Let us go to Bethlehem, 

This Infant for to see ; 

He who runs and gets there first 
The luckiest will be I ’ 

So they ran, and Mary found — 

Joseph found also. 

And before the little Babe 
Down they bended low ; 

Then, returning home, they sang. 

Glory, glory be to God ; 

Glory, glory, glory ! 

Spread the stor>*, spread the news. 

Sing the wondrous sto — ry ! 

Pcor Kezia! How she loved Samuel! She was 
here when he was born, and though she was only a 
little girl then, she was the first to have him in her 
arms. Father says he remembers just how she looked 
at that moment. She takes his death very much to 
heart, and says more than ever about living consist- 
ent. 

Mother has taken a class in the Sunday-school, 
She and father have persuaded a great many of the 
factory girls to come, and everybody who can teach 
has to have a class : even I have some of these big 
girls. It does not seem right ; I am so ignorant, and 


RU TIT'S JOURNAL. 


283 


get so frightened. I am afraid I would rather stay 
at home with baby. But mother says she is just as 
ignorant as I am, and not near so fit to have a class. 
And as to baby, I feel very unfit to obey the last 
charge my beloved brother gave me when he said, 
“You will be his father, and his mother, too. I 
charge you to train him up in the fear of the Lord 
and for the glory of Jesus Christ ! 

Who am I that I should have a child to train? I 
can not see why God should be so good to me. 

Samuel grew very fond of mother before he died. 
He thought she was his own mother, and hated to 
have her out of his sight. He was her boy, and 
made her love him. When he had gone, she quite 
broke down, and father forgot himself in trying to 
comfort her. 

“ I have been in Christ’s school longer than you, 
my dear,” he would say, “ and I ought to know its 
rules better than you do, and keep them bettei 
And the first rule I ever learned was to ask no ques- 
Hons." 

Mother catches a thing quickly. She looked up 
aiid smiled through her tears when he said that. We 
never heard her say again that she wished she knew 
why, when Sam ael was making us all so happy, God 
should think it best to take him away. 


284 


FEMAQUID, 


MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

Such genuine grief as the death of Samuel has 
caused us all is hard to bear. But my share is hardest, 
for there are mingled with my sorrow pangs of self- 
reproach unknown to the rest. How I alienated his 
heart from me and drove him from his home ! But 
God has been very good to me. The dear boy came 
to love me as dearly as I did him. I had the fond- 
est caresses from his transparent hands, and at last 
his eye followed me if I left his side ; and when I re- 
turned he welcomed me as if I were his own mother 
Ruth had the whole care of the baby, and it was de- 
lightful to find myself necessary to Samuel in conse- 
quence. Mr. Woodford was very kind and affection- 
ate, and put down his own grief in order to comfort 
mine. And how different is the pure sorrow I suffer 
now from the wicked, worldly sufferings of most of 
my life ! This pain has the sweetest, the most sub- 
lime consolations mingled with it ; no one who has 
experienced them needs any other argument to prove 
that Christianity is true. I envy now ministers of the 
Gospel who have the privilege of preaching to others 
what they have themselves learned in their own won- 
derful experience of God’s presence, when beloved 
ones have passed out of their sight. Mr. Strong 
does this like one inspired, and in her own less 
public way so does his wife. 


KEZIA BECOMES A GREAT COMFORT 28 £ 


KEZIA BECOMES A GREATER COMFORT THAN EVER 

“ Yes, yes, Mis’ Woodford, I aint forgot that you 
was hard on the boy ; but then he was an obstreper- 
ous lad, all along from the time he was fourteen till 
he got to be a man. Boys is that way unless they’re 
uncommon of their kind. And you wasn’t brought 
up like us folks in Pemaquid, and all our ways seemed 
queer to you and all your ways seemed queer to us. 
La! the first time you and Juliet got down on your 
knees to meetin’, you never see how we was all struck 
of a heap ! We thought nobody but Papishers got 
down on their knees to meetin’. But we don’t none 
of us mind it, now we’ve got used to it. And you 
was dreadful good to Samuel all the time he was sick, 
and you’ve no call to think hard of yourself for what 
you did before you met with a change. I’m sure 
you’re livin’ consistent now, and have mourned over 
your sins till you’ve growed so poor I don’t believe 
you weigh a hundred pound. And though it come 
awful hard to give Samuel- up, it aint as if he hadn't 
gone to glory, and we don’t sorrow as them as hasn’t 
no hope. And the Squire’s gittin’ over his grief 
a-comfortin’ you, and our Ruth won’t never go away 
now after no spaik; and me. I’ve come back for good, 
and you. Mis’ Woodford, has growed so agreeable, 
and take it all together our cup is runnin* over. 
And then, as if that was not enough, there s a baby 
throwed in / ” 


XXV. 


"Where did you come from, baby dear? 

Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did you get your eyes so blue? 

Out of the sky as I came through. 

"Where did you get that little tear? 

I found it waiting when I got here.” 

ruth’s journal. 

I T was New Year’s Day, and everybody in the house, 
and some out of it, made baby a holiday present. 
We had Mr. and Mrs. Strong to tea, and they came 
early and went early, because Father Strong can not 
be up late. After they had gone, I put baby to bed 
with his hands full of his new playthings, and some 
under his pillow, and then I began to pick up and put 
away things, and get the sitting-room to rights for 
the evening, as I always do. The lamps were lighted, 
the fire snapped and sparkled on the hearth, father’s 
light stand was drawn up to it, and mother’s rocking- 
chair was on the other side. Everything looked 
cheerful, and happy, and cosy ; perhaps all the more 
so because the wind was rising and a snow-storm was 

coming on. I thought I would take in the door-mat 
( 280 ) 



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RUTJI*S JOURNAL, 


287 


before the snow began to fall, but when I opened the 
door a heavy body fell in. I was so surprised that I 
cried out, and Kezia came running with a lamp. 
Then we found a half-frozen man lying in the door- 
way, so that we could not close it. Kezia lifted him 
up in her great, strong arms and carried him into the 
kitchen and laid him on the floor by the fire. Then 
the light shone on his face, and though it was dread- 
fully changed, I knew it was Frank. Then there came 
a little weak cry, and we found he had a very young 
and very tiny baby under his coat. I lifted it up ; it 
had an old, wrinkled face, and when I offered it some 
warm milk, it drank it as if it was half-starved. By 
this time mother had come from her room, and she 
ran for some brandy, and she and Kezia did all they 
could to restore Frank. But he was very much ex- 
hausted, and was put to bed by Kezia, who snorted 
privately to herself meanwhile. 

When she came back to the kitchen she snorted 
more publicly. 

There, hand me that 'ere young one,” she said, 
‘^you've got your hands full with your own baby, 
and this imp is a-goin’ to sleep along o’ me. Not 
that I can abide the sight on it ; humph ! Fll git 
down the cradle and put it in that daytimes, and Fll 
lay a bolster between it and me nights.” 

I did not know what to say or do. Where was 
Juliet? Was this her child? And why had Frank 
come here ? 


288 


PEMAQUID. 


Mother looked pale and frightened, and did not 
know what to think. How our pleasant evening was 
suddenly overcast ! 

At last I began to come to my senses. 

** Kezia,” I said, “ what do you mean by saying 
you’ll put a bolster between you and this poor little 
baby?” 

^‘Why, do you suppose Fd let Juliet Pickett’s 
young one lay alongside of me nights, and touch me ? 
ril take care of the creetur, and warm it, and clothe 
it, and feed it, because Providence has sent k here ; 
and you’ve no call to nuss it, because you’ve a baby 
of your own. But, my patience ! I aint a-goin’ to 
love it ! No, Scrawny, you needn’t expect me to love 
you. But you won’t have nothin’ to complain of. 
Fll do my duty by you, you may depend. And I 
guess Fll put the clothes you’ve got on into the 
pounding-barrel and give ’em a good pounding, for 
blacker clothes I never see. And whilst Fm a-doin’ 
of it, Ruth, you have an eye to the soft-soap I was a- 
makin*; it’s coming beautiful. And I guess Fll put ofl 
dyeing the stockin’s till next week. The sugar-loaf 
paper’ll keep, and I can dye with it next week as well 
as this ; and this young one wont keep unless it’s 
seen to right away. Well ! if anybody’d told me Fd 
shirk the soap and put off the dyeing for a young one 
of Juliet Pickett’s I wouldn’t have believed it I Why, 
Church Fast stands fust, and Thanksgivin’ next, and 
making a barrel of soft-soap next, and dyeing with 


HU TIT'S JOURNAL, 


289 


sugar-loaf paper next. And somehow or other this 
baby has crep’ in and upset ’em all. I shouldn’t won- 
der if I stayed away from Church Fast and Thanks- 
givin’, just for Scrawny ! ” 

The next morning when Kezia went to look after 
Frank she found him in a high fever; he did not 
know her, but imagined her to be Juliet, and shrank 
from her with great aversion. Kezia had been up half 
the night with the puny, wailing child, and was in 
none too sweet a frame of mind. 

There aint an end to one kind of temptation be- 
fore another comes a ravin’ and a tearin’ in. Now 
here’s our Ruth’s spark come a quarterin’ of himself 
and his young one onto us, and what for, I want to 
know ? Why, to rile up my feelin’s dreadful.” 

Notwithstanding which she would not let me touch 
the new baby, and handled it skillfully herself, ad- 
dressing to it, meanwhile, anything but compliment- 
ary remarks. 

“ Come, you little bag of bones, and be washed and 
dressed. La ! was you ever washed before in your 
life ? I declare, there’s eight places where the skin’s 
off! No wonder you wailed in the night. And you’ve 
no call to eat up my fingers. There’s plenty of milk, 
and that’ll agree with you better’n Kezia would.” 

Mother does not take to either Frank or the baby. 
And Frank has such an aversion to Kezia that he will 
not let her do anything for him. So the care comes 
on father and on me. And I ought not to pretend 
13 


290 


PEMAQUID. 


that I nurse him out of love. Love was buried long 
ago in a very deep grave. But Providence has sent 
him and his child here, and it is plainly our duty to 
do what we can for him. And that is very little. 

P'rank is more conscious now, and does not take 
Kezia for Juliet any more. And if she isn't full of 
the milk of human kindness, nobody is. 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

The wreck of what was once a brilliant, talented 
young man has drifted to our door, and we have 
taken him into port. To me his mutterings are in- 
tolerable, and I shrink from entering his room. What 
has become of my poor, misguided Juliet? Is she 
dead? or what is worse, has she deserted her hus- 
band and child ? It is not likely I shall ever know, 
for Frank's intellect is, I fully believe, wholly de- 
throned. Well, I must bear this uncertainty in faith 
and patience. Ruth’s task is not a hard one. She 
is fond of nursing the sick, and there is little to do for 
Frank. Kezia is the one to be pitied. That sickly, 
peevish, moaning child is enough to wear out even 
her strong constitution. No maternal instinct at- 
tracts me to the unhappy little being. Nothing tells 
me this is Juliet’s child. And yet it must be hers. 


LA WYER SNELL CALLS TO SEE KEZLA. 291 


LAWYER SNELL CALLS TO SEE KEZIA. 

“ Well, Kezia, my good woman, I hear you are, as 
usual, wide awake and stirring round, though you are 
afflicted with a feeble female child on your hands. 
It is a mysterious Providence. I thought I would 
just step over and tiy to sustain you in your path of 
duty.” 

‘‘ My path of duty? Who says it’s a path of duty? 
Was I to let a poor little wailing infant die because 
I liked to lay abed and take my ease? You’ve heard 
it kep’ me awake nights? Well, who do my nights 
belong to if they don’t belong to me? You think 
it’s a dreadful scrawny infant? Is it any scrawnier 
than you be ? And hasn’t it a right to be scrawny if 
it’s a mind ? Poor little deserted lamb, has folks got 
to come and poke fun at its skin and bones? What 
if there wasn’t no love lost between its ma and me, 
am I to let it starve to death to spite her, when its 
livin’ would spite her more ? What have I got ag’inst 
this poor little motherless rag-baby? Why, I aint 
got nothin’ ag’inst it. And if you’d got any heart 
amongst them old yaller bones of your’n you’d see 
forty reasons why I should be good to it. However, 
one’s enough for me. I’ve made up my mind to it, 
and that’s enough.” 

“ But, Kezia, I’ve always thought a great deal of 
you, and it puts me out to see you wearing yourself 
to death for this miserable infant. Better send it to 


292 


FEMAQUJD. 


the poor-house, and then the town will have to pay 
the expenses of its funeral. And I’ve been thinking 
it’s pretty lonesome for me at home, and I’ve always 
thought a good deal of you, and I’m pretty well-to- 
do in the world, and I aint never riled by your tem- 
per ; I rather like it, for you know it’s mostly put on, 
and if we could have our names read out in meetin’, 
and the parson join us two, it would be quite a rise 
in the world for you and make me very comfortable. 
You’ve got a penny laid by, and you’re an elegant 
cook, and I declare, Kezia, there wasn’t a better 
looking woman in the parish than you till you took 
in this wretched infant. Come, now, say the word 
and we’ll be one.” 

“ Do you see that broom. Lawyer Snell ? Well, 
I’ll lay it across your shoulders if you ever come 
prowling into my kitchen ag’in. What have I done, 
I want to know, that you suppose I’d part with a 
poor little bag of bones that’s got a soul in it, any- 
how, and our Ruth, and the Squire, and Mis’ Wood- 
ford to go to be ‘one’ with you? Yes, it would be 
one with a vengeance ! I should be in your house 
and you nowheres ! ” 

Sings : 

Well, off he sneaked from out the room 
When I made for him with the broom ! 

'Twas well for him and well for me 
There wasn’t assault and battery. 

Me leave the folks I love so well. 

To go aivi marry Lawyer Snell ? 


RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


292 


Me leave this puny, wailing thing. 

To get a old brass weddin’ ring ? 

No, Scrawny, it aint come to that, 

I’ll nurse you if it lays me flat. 

Not that I ever loved your pa, 

Or ever could abide your ma. 

But if I would consistent be 
I must from all temptation flee. 

To hate you for your parents’ sake. 

Or angry be when kep’ awake 
By your incessant wails at night — 

No, I must do the thing that’s right. 
And so I will, with all my might. 

And as for Lawyer Snell, I see 
All that the man would have of me, 
My savings earnt through many a year 
Of toil and’ care and labor here. 

To be his cook and make his pies, 

And then to nurse him till he dies. 

I thank you kindly. Lawyer Snell, 

1 like this baby far too well 
To go and be a slave to you. 

So we’re not one and we are two. 


ruth’s JOURNAL. 

It i.s plain that poor Frank’s days are numbered, 
and that his mind has gone. And who knows whether 
he was in his sound senses when he married Juliet? 
All she ever wrote about him was that he could not 
sleep. At any rate I have fully forgiven him for all 
he ever did to harm me, and am perfectly willing to 
go on nursing him as long as God pleases to prolong 
his life. I was a silly, obstinate girl to love him as I 


294 ^EMAQUin. 

did, and how thankful I am now that I was not allow- 
ed to have my own way and cast in my lot with his. 
How much happier we all should be if we had the 
temper of little children, and let God guide us with- 
out undertaking to have wills of our own. How 
ridiculous it would be for my baby to make plans for 
himself. But it was even more foolish for me to im- 
agine I knew what was good for me. 

Mother is troubled that she does not take to the 
new baby, but I don’t think she ought. She is very 
kind to it, and does all she can to favor Kezia about 
the housework, because the sickly child needs so much 
time. But she can not make herself realize that she 
is its grandmother, having no proof that she is. We 
all think there is no doubt that she is. As to Kezia, 
she has taken up “ Scrawny,” as she calls her, as some 
people approach vice, and she “first endured, then 
pitied, then embraced ” it. 

She thinks herself in only the first stage, that of 
endurance, and goes about looking like a martyr. 
But if any one suggests that “ Scrawny ” is sickly, or 
peevish, or troublesome, she is up in arms in a minute. 
I do not doubt she would pluck out her eyes for 
it. And it fills up an empty place in her big heart 
without crowding any of us out of it. She exhibits 
the poor, pitiful, sad little creature that has never 
smiled since it came here two months ago, with as 
much pride and delight as if she was its mother or 
had created it herself. Dear good, faithful soul! 


RUTH'S JOURNAL, 


295 


And Mrs. Strong keeps coming to see her and hold 
councils with her over it when it is particularly out of 
sorts, and I really believe they both of them love it 
better than any healthy child in the world. Mrs. 
Strong feels very tender toward all sick children. 

Mother’s most intimate friends, out of her own 
house, are the three at the parsonage. There is noth- 
ing she will not do for them. And, considering that 
she is not naturally fond of children, and regards the 
new baby as Kezia’s property, not her own, I think 
she is very patient with the noise and the trouble the 
poor little creature makes. For mother is not strong, 
and when she loses her sleep she is easily upset. I 
think it a mercy that she does not try to take care of 
the baby, as she would do if she realized it as her grand- 
child, for she is utterly unfit to be up with it nights. 

Of course Frank expected to leave his own and 
Juliet’s child in our care, and then lie down and die 
in peace. And if Keiza gets worn out with it, as I 
fear she will, I shall change babies with her, even if 
it kills me. Why not? Why should all the wear 
and tear come upon her, and I take nothing but solid 
comfort for my share ? 

I am a good deal ashamed that I do not love the 
little creature half as well as I do my own baby. As 
soon as Frank dies I shall spend a day of fasting and 
prayer, that God would make me as thoroughly for- 
giving as He is, and if I have any secret shrinking 
from Juliet’s infant, to give me true repentance and 
a tenderer heart. 


XXVI. 


“ Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell T 
Sleeping or waking ? mad or well-advise<I ? 
Known unto these, and to myself disguised ? ’ 

‘The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
Is the memory of past folly 1 ” 


MRS. STRONG CALLS ON MRS. WOODFORD. 

“ TV /T IS’ WOODFORD aint to home this afternoon 
Mis’ Strong, and Ruth she’s gone with her, 
and aint to home neither. Come into the kitchen 
and set right down in the chimbly corner, and I’ll 
heave a couple of sticks onto the fire in no time. 
You’ve been to Bosting, haven’t you? Well, the 
wonderfullest things has happened while you was 
gone. That ’ere blessed baby aint no more Mis’ 
Woodford’s grandchild than I be. What do you 
think of that. Mis’ Strong? I’ll tell you all about it. 
(Baby begins to cry). 

“ There, now, come to its own Keziey, so it shall. 
Snuggle its little head down onto her, and keep still 
while she talks to Mis’ Strong. She’s Kezia’s ownty, 
downty minister’s wife, and baby must keep stilly so 
(296) 


MES. STRONG CALLS. 


297 


it must. There now, eat its little thumb, and make 
believe its little thumb is its ma. 

“ Well, as I was a-sayin’, one mornin* I went to 
Frank Weston’s room, and lo and behold he wasn’t 
there ! He had been better’n usual for a week ; his 
fever had gone and his mind had come back, though 
he looked like a livin’ skeleton. He came out to see 
his baby, and 

“ ‘ Kezia,’ says he, * you seem fond of that poor lit- 
tle creature,’ says he. 

“ ‘ So I be,’ says I. 

“ * Would it be a great trial to go on caring for it 
till it is old enough to thrive in my clumsy hands? ' 
says he. 

“ I turned as red as fire. 

“‘You don’t mean that Ruth’s to have a baby^ 
and poor old Kezia have hers tore out of her heart 
by the roots ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ Do you really love the child ? ’ says he. ‘ Would 
it pain you to part with it?’ says he, his lips all of a 
tremble, for he hadn’t got his strength back by no 
manner of means. 

“ I bursted out crying at that, and don’t know what I 
said ; but he took the child in his arms and kissed it 
over and over again, and then handed it back to me 
and went out, but pretty soon he came hurrying in 
and pressed it to his heart, and put his hand on its 
head and blessed it. 

“ ‘ 1 meant to give her to Ruth,’ says he, ‘ but I see 
13 * 


293 


PEMAQUID. 


she has her hands and her heart full of her own child, 
says he. ‘ Kezia, did she marry Josiah Stone ? ’ says he. 

** Massy sakes alive ! Goody gracious me ! 1 

thought I should drop. 

“‘Marry Josiah Stone!’ I screeched out. ‘Out 
Ruth f You are crazy ! * 

“ ‘ Who did she marry, then ? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ She aint married to nobody. ’Tain’t her baby. 
It’s our SamueV s I ’ 

“He sot right down in the fust chair he see, as if 
he was shot. 

“ ‘ I am goin’ to give you a piece of my mind, Frank 
Weston,’ says I. ‘ What bizness had you to bring 
Juliet Pickett’s young one to our Ruth?’ says I. 
‘ Did you suppose she’d touch it with a pair of tongs ? ’ 
says I. 

“ ‘ J uliet Pickett’s young one ? ’ ^ys he. ‘ Why, Ke- 
zia Millet, do you imagine, do any of the rest of them 
imagine that this is her child ? ’ 

“ ‘ Of course, we never thought nothin’ else,’ says 1. 
‘ Why should we ? ’ says I. ‘ Didn’t she run off to get 
married to you ? ’ says I. 

“ He actually began to pound himself on the for- 
rerd, as if he meant to beat his brains out. And then 
he all but fainted away. 

“ When he come to, ‘ The sooner I leave this house 
the better,’ says he. ‘ There’s terrible mistakes all 
round,’ says he. ‘ I did not marry Juliet, and this is 
not her child. I must write and explain everything. 


MJ^S. SmONG CALLS, 


. 299 


I declare, I could lia* danced for joy, I caught 
up the baby, and if I kissed it once I kissed it forty 
times. And to think Td ever slep’ with a bolster be- 
tween me and it because of Juliet Pickett’s bein’ its 
ma ! On the whole, I believe I did dance about the 
kitchen, for I didn’t see Frank go out ; but go he did, 
without any more words. 

It was a fortnight before we heard from him, and 
then he wrote a long letter, saying he had not mar- 
ried Juliet after all. It seems she’d played the hyp- 
ocrite, and made believe she’d met with a change, 
and at the last minnit he found her out, and charged 
her with it, and all the love he thought he felt for her 
melted away. She declared she’d never go back to 
Pemaquid, to be everybody’s laughing stock; and 
he suspected — though he did not know it — that she 
never let her ma mistrust that she wasn’t married. 
At any rate, she said she never should tell her. 

“After he got his eyes open he went away and 
kep* school. He knew our Ruth would never look at 
him again, and there was a good, pious little girl in 
the family where he boarded, and he got married to 
her. But she was very young and very sicVy» and 
when the baby came she died ; and he tricJ to lake 
care of it himself — you know he was dre^df*;! fond 
of chiMren — and, la ! what with mismanaging the lit- 
tle thing, and losing his sleep night after night, he 
got wore out. He hadn’t any money to leave it, 2.nd 
knew it would die if somebody did not take ext/ a 


soo 


PEMAQUID, 


care of it out of love, and so he made up his mind to 
bring it to our Ruth, confess all his sins against her, 
and beg her to take pity on the child. But the jour- 
ney was too much for him, and he just dropped, half- 
dead, at our door. Mis’ Woodford, she’ll show you 
his letter when she comes home. We all had a great 
time laughing and crying over it, and we was all 
sorry that you’d gone out of town, and so couldn’t 
laugh and cry with us. 

“ And Mis’ Woodford, she’d always said she couldn’t 
cotton to it, and didn’t believe it was her grandchild ; 
and our Ruth, she said she didn’t want two babies, 
and wouldn’t rob me of mine, and break my heart all 
to pieces, and she knew I’d bring it up as pious and 
consistent as she could ; and me and you. Mis’ 
Strong, will watch over it, and nuss it, and it’ll 
grow to be as plump as a partridge and as chirp as a 
robin red^breast. I’ll take it in the arms of my faith 
and carry it to Him who loves to heal the sick, and ask 
Him to make it all over bran new. And He will, 
you see if He don’t ! ” 

Sings : 

** We’ve had our ups, we’ve had our downs, 

But now it’s plain to see 
That through them all we have turned out 
A happy family. 

The Squire’s got a pious wife 
That he can fondly love : 

And more than that — two blessed saints 
Who live in heaven above. 


FRANK WESTON EXPLAINS. 


301 


Mis’ Woodford has her cares, ’tis true. 

But she has learnt to rest 
, Her cause with One who never can 
Forget her heart oppressed ; 

And she’s a happy woman, now, 

Intent on doin’ good, 

And pious as the day is long ; 

I always hoped she would. 

And there’s our Ruth, as rich and proud, 

As proud as she can be. 

But then she can’t a candle hold 
To one as rich as me ! 

Why, who’d have thought I’d ever have 
A baby of my own, 

Tliat with the eye of faith I see 
Begin to run alone ? 

We was a happy set before — 

To doubt it would be sin — 

And then, as if it warn’t enough. 

Two babies was throwed in ! 

And I have said a hundred times — 

To s^y it I’ve a call — 

A house without a baby in. 

It ain’t no house at all I ” 

FRANK WESTON EXPLAINS. 

I owe it to you all, my dear and honored friends, to 
clear up the mistakes into which we have all fallen. In 
the first place, then, let me confess that, unconscious- 
ly to myself, I had become inflated with spiritual 
pride, and was, therefore, ready for a fall. Satan 
knew only too well my weak points, and he sent a 
beautiful tempter to work, if possible, my ruin. I 
indulged myself in the notion that a young and in- 


302 


FEMAQUin. 


experienced fellow like myself could, safely for eithei 
party, plunge into a pious friendship with a young 
lady. There was honest purpose in my conduct, but 
that does not excuse me. We are responsible for our 
mistakes, and I must account to God for mine. At 
the same time I was sinned against. A plot was laid 
to dishonor my betrothed in my eyes, and I, who 
never should have injured her by so much as a thought, 
became more or less alienated from her, fool that I 
was. My behavior to her was most base and unmanly ; 
I have no excuse to offer for such conduct. Almost 
in a frenzy of that dangerous mixture of sentiments, 
love and religion, I engaged myself to a being whom 
I believed to have become, thanks to my influence 
and instructions, a ripening saint. You will hardly 
believe that, amid all this folly, I still kept up a life 
of prayer; through that the Divine Hand saved me 
at the eleventh hour. Our wedding-day was fixed, 
our arrangements all made ; a few hours only sepa- 
rated me from a fatal mistake. Secure of having 
gained her end, my future wife threw off her disguise 
and presented herself before me in her true colors. 

I had lost all comfort in religion, but its deep- 
seated, invincible principle remained. He to whom I 
daily offered my puny, unsatisfactory prayers came to 
my rescue now. To unite myself in marriage with 
one who scorned Him was no temptation. It cost 
me nothing to part with her. And since I had shown 
myself so weak, so unable to take care of myself, there 


FRANK WESTON EXPLAINS, 


303 


was but one course to pursue : to tear myself away 
from her seductive influence at once and forever. 
However dangerous to her soul was this sundering of 
ties, I believe I was doing the only thing left me. A 
man so weak and human as I could not have saved 
her, and we should have plunged down together into 
an abyss of evil. 

In our final interview I gave her as solemn a warn- 
ing as a mortal just escaped from eternal death could 
give to one in danger of it. But it was of no avail ; 
and on that occasion I was told that Ruth had en- 
gaged herself to Josiah Stone, and was forever lost 
to me. 

I found employment as a teacher in a remote town, 
and a certain peace. In the family where I boarded 
there was a pious little girl. I can not explain to 
you why, at the end of a year, I married her. I shall 
have to appear in your eyes as one who counts mar- 
riage a very trifling thing. Yet this is not true. She 
never missed anything in me ; she was satisfied and 
happy. Then a little feeble infant came to me, and 
she' stole away, to be gone forever. I tried to be 
both father and mother to the child, and night after 
night, walked my room with it till I broke down. 
And if I died, what would become of the child? It 
might die too, but it might live and suffer. My wife 
had no mother, no sister. What should I do ? I 
knew a being who never thought of herself when 
needed by others ; I knew my misconduct would not 


504 


PEMAQUin. 


close her heart to my child ; I determined to appeal 
to her and then lie down and die. You know in what 
a condition I reached your house ; you all know how 
you sheltered, how you nursed me, how you brought 
me back to life. Then I saw Ruth radiant and happy, 
with a child of her own, as I fancied ; and when that 
error was corrected, learned to my amazement that 
you all believed me to be Juliet’s husband and that 
that puny infant was her child. I assure you I have 
never seen nor heard from her since we parted. I 
know she never meant to return to Pemaquid, and as 
you hear nothing from her I presume she has mar- 
ried and found a home elsewhere. 

As to my child, it has nestled its way into as honest 
and warm and tender a heart as ever beat. How 
Kezia nursed me at times during my long illness I 
never can forget. And as to Ruth’s magnanimous 
treatment of one who had cruelly wronged her, it 
would be an impertinence to speak of it. God will 
bless and reward her. I never can. 

As long as Kezia Millet is fond of my poor little 
motherless child, and you are willing to tolerate it, I 
shall be thankful to leave it in her charge. If I re- 
gain my health I shall expect to meet its expenses 
myself. This is man’s portion in this life. He gives 
money. Woman gives youth, health, beauty, time, 
heart, and soul. Will the twain fare alike in the 
world to come? 

I have resumed my theological studies, and if I 


FRANK^S LETTER TO MRS. STRONG. 30J 


ever become a minister of the Gospel it will be as one 
who has known the torment of a furnace of tempta- 
tion, has fought with the tempter, and been smitten 
almost unto death with his fiery darts. What lessons 
of deep humility I shall have to teach ! What warn- 
ings to utter against spiritual pride. 

And now, having humbled myself before God, 1 
humble myself before you all, entreating your for- 
giveness as I trust I have obtained it from Him. 

Frank Weston. 

MRS. WOODFORD READS FRANK’S LETTER TO MRS. 

STRONG. 

‘‘ What do I think of it ? I think it is a sincere, 
straightforward letter, and that he has suffered far 
more from shame and remorse than he has made any 
attempt to tell. Fancy how one possessed of the 
principle of love to God agonizes when all his joyous 
emotions disappear, and he finds himself standing 
stripped and bare before the All-seeing Eye ! Some 
souls have to go through this process. I think Frank 
is going to make an exceptionally useful man.” 

“ I know too little about Christian experience to 
form any opinion about it. But it is an inexpressible 
relief to hear of Juliet. If Frank had only had 
courage to marry Juliet, who knows what he might 
not have made of her?” 

“He liad no right to do evil that good might come. 
Hers is the dominant natire. He would not have 


306 


PEMAQUID, 


lifted her up; she would have dragged him down, 
How did his letter affect Ruth?” 

“ I think the fact that he did not marry Juliet was 
a great delight to her. It made a difference about 
the baby. And I confess it is a relief to me to know 
that I am not that child’s grandmother. I am not 
fond of young children. And this one is so unsavory, 
poor thing. Kezia proposed to go home to her 
mother’s with it, as it was such a wearing thing to us 
to hear it cry so much. But I would not listen to it. 
The good creature deserves every indulgence at oui 
hands, and we all agree that she is as much one of 
the family as any of us. I don’t know who among 
us all is the happiest. Sometimes I think I am ; and 
then that it is the Squire, with his deeper religious 
life; and then that it is Ruth, with her baby, or 
Kezia, with hers.” 

“ But women are meant to be wives as well as 
mothers.” 

“ That may be. But Kezia would chase out of her 
kitchen any man who mentioned matrimony to her, 
and Ruth — well — Ruth — would made a splendid min- 
ister’s wife ; but she is contented as she is, looking 
after the church with you and Mr. Strong, and rev- 
elling in her baby. Yes, and we are beginning to 
g^'ow old, and what would become of us without our 
Ruth?” 

‘•Yes, I know. But here is Frank Weston emerge 
ing into ten times the man I ever thought or even 


FRANK'S LETTER TO MRS. STRONG. 307 


dreamed he would. Ruth will get attached to his 
baby inevitably, though she does not think so now 
She has to write to him every now and then about it, 
and on this common ground they will meet.’^ 

She does not love him, and I do not believe a 
dead and buried love ever comes to life again. ’’ 

“Well — perhaps 1 agree with you. But a slumber- 
ing affection may wake up and. arise refreshed and 
strengthened.” 

“ I had no idea you had so much romance about 
you.” 

“ Do you know where Frank is?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Can you give me his address? ” 

“ Certainly. But I won’t have any matrimonial 
project put on the carpet. We could not do without 
our Ruth. She is the very tower of our strength.” 

“ I have no matrimonial designs on her. But for 
my own satisfaction, and because I have loved Frank 
dearly, I want to have this mystery of his marriage 
cleared up.” 

“ You will find it the simplest thing in the world. 
He had a faculty of shifting his affections about at 
will.” 

“ I shall hold my judgment in suspense until I hear, 
at any rate. You can not object to that?” 

“ Oh; no ! But you will see that I am right in my 
opinion of him. ’ 


XXVII. 

* And a little child shall lead them 


REV. MR. STRONG TO REV. MR. BEACH. 

D ear brother: in reply to your favor just re* 
ceived, I am happy to say that Frank Weston’s 
little child is in good hands and doing as well as 
could be expected. I had reason to suppose he was 
kept informed as to its welfare. 

Will you now permit me to ask, if I may do so 
without intrusion, what were the circumstances of 
his marriage to your daughter? His relations to my 
wife and myself, and another family in my parish, 
justify, I think, our wish for light on a subject very 
painful in some of its aspects. We want the right, 
if he deserves it (I mean some of us do), to reinstate 
him in our affections. 

If, however, for any reason, you prefer to make no 
reply to this letter, I beg you will feel perfectly free 
to do so. 

I remain, truly yours, 

A. Strong. 

REV. MR. BEACH TO REV. MR. STRONG. 

Dear Brother : I hasten to reply to your letter 
in regard to my beloved son-in-law, Frank Weston. 
( 308 ) 


MR, BRA CM TO REV. MR, STRONG. 309 


He came to this town to teach in our academy, 
which is a flourishing one, designing at the same time 
to pursue a theological course with myself. I soon 
became deeply interested in him. He struck me as 
one who had trodden a wine-press of suffering, al- 
though he never spoke of himself. It is thus God 
often trains the soldiers whom He means to put in 
the forefront of the battle. 

As I became more interested in him, it occurred 
to me that it would be pleasant to have him in my 
family. This consisted of a young daughter and 
myself. We were lonely, and found Mr. Weston’s 
society very congenial. That it involved any danger 
to my daughter never crossed my mind. I looked 
upon her as a mere child. But before many months 
had passed I became aware that she had conceived 
an enthusiastic affection for him. And I could not 
blame her. A more attractive young man I never 
met. 

He did not, however, occupy himself with my poor 
little girl, or see what I saw. And I should not have 
seen it myself but that I have been her mother as 
well as her father ever since her birth. 

I let things drift as long as I could. -Then I had 
to speak. 

He was very much surprised and pained, and 
begged me to tell him if he had been guilty of any 
error in regard to my little girl. 

I assured him that he had not, but begged him, if 


310 


PEMAQUID, 


he was heart-free, to think of my poor child as fault- 
less and pure a young girl as ever lived. 

He then acquainted me with the fact that he had 
had dealings with young ladies that did him great 
discredit as' a Christian man, and declared himself 
utterly unworthy of my daughter. He spoke with 
great penitence and humility, and only endeared him- 
self to me the more by his confessions. Here was 
pure gold : it had been tried in a fire and had come 
forth refined for the Master’s use. 

He proposed to leave my house at once, but I 
would not consent. The mischief, as far as my 
daughter was concerned, was done. And I loved 
him as a son. Yet I reproached myself bitterly for 
not realizing that Alice was not still a child. If he 
left us, however, she would know that her secret was 
discovered, and be overwhelmed with shame. It 
seemed best to think of some plausible excuse for 
sending her away, poor child. 

The proposal to depart came, however, from her- 
self. She was a girl of high principle. The moment 
she discovered the state of her heart she began to 
meditate on the best means of retreating from a posi 
tion that made her blush in the solitude of her own 
room. All this I learned only after her death. 

She had great faith in prayer, and she prayed con- 
stantly that she might be delivered from this trial ur 
be permitted to find refuge away from home. At 
last an occasion offered, and hiding a sore heart un* 


MR. BEACH TO REV. MR. STRONG. 311 


der a smiling aspect, she asked my leave to go 
But I was less courageous than she. I could not 
part from her. I began to flatter myself that 
Frank could not live long under the same rool 
with so lovely a character, and not come in time 
to appreciate it. She was perfectly modest and 
retiring. There was nothing to disgust, and every- 
thing to attract him. 

Yet it cost him a great struggle to decide to 
make her his wife. 

It was three months before he could make up his 
mind to take any step in the matter, and it was not 
till he had spent a year under my roof that the mar- 
riage took place. On his side there was no romance, 
but he made a devoted and kind husband to my 
child, who, I am sure, suspected nothing, and was 
happy in him to her dying day. 

After she had gone he devoted himself to the babe 
like a woman. It slept by his side, he fed, he dressed 
it with his own hands. In vain I pleaded with him 
against a course of conduct dfengerous for both him- 
self and the child. His whole soul seemed to con- 
centrate itself on that frail life. He fought manfully 
for it, risking his own, for that active brain of his 
needed the sleep of whi'ch the little creature deprived 
him. Of course he soon broke completely down. 

This occurred in my absence at the funeral of my 
father, and when I returned he had disappeared with 
the child. Imagine, if you can, my distress. My feai 


312 


PEMAQUID, 


was that the ordeal through which he had been pass* 
ing had partially dethroned his reason, and that he 
had put an end to his own life and that of the child. 
Every effort was made to find a trace of him, but in 
vain. Brother, if I had had no faith in a kind, wise, over- 
ruling Providence, my own reason would have given 
way. Three months had passed^and I mourned him 
as one dead, when late one night, an emaciated, pale, 
and almost lifeless man, he returned to me. His ac- 
count of himself was vague, and confirmed me in the 
idea that he was suffering from brain fever and not 
accountable for what he did when he set forth on his 
pilgrimage to Pemaquid. Nor was he fully himself 
on his return. His mind ran on one idea, namely, 
that I was about to slay his child, and that he must 
take it away out of my reach. Even after his health 
began decidedly to improve, this idea haunted him, 
and he refused to tell me where he had placed it. I 
had only learned that it was at Pemaquid, and in 
your parish, when I wrote you. 

Frank’s health is n^ entirely restored, but he is 
very restless and uncomfortable since he parted with 
his little babe. Every time the mail comes in, he 
rushes to the office hoping for news. Can he not be 
informed regularly how it thrives ? 

Truly yours, 

Theron H. Beach. 


THE CORRESPONDENCE DISCUSSED. 313 


MR. AND MRS. STRONG READ THE FOREGOING TO- 
GETHER. 

“ Well, husband, I must own that I am greatly re- 
lieved. It looked as if it made next to no difference 
to Frank whom he married. And it is plain as 
day to me that he never has got over his old affection 
for Ruth. But what can she mean by neglecting to 
let him hear from his child ? I thought she would 
write every week or two, and th^t gradually things 
would stand on the old basis. I always loved Frank ; 
and I never liked the idea of Ruth’s being an old 
maid.’^ 

“ Now, my dear, don’t let your heart run away with 
you. Let Frank alone. Ruth is happy and con- 
tented as she is, and very useful in the church, and a 
world of comfort at home. And I do not think she 
could ever so thoroughly forgive Frank as to marry 
him.” 

“ That shows how little you know her. When she 
was a mere child she took for her motto the words, 
* Give and forgive.* You know how she responds to 
every appeal for help, how exactly like her father she 
is in searching out and relieving the cause she knows 
not, and I believe she is just as generous with hei 
affections.*’ 

Now, my dear, romantic little wife, do let well 
enough alone. Don’t go and mix yourself up in an> 

matrimonial scheme whatever. By the by, they have 
14 


314 


FEMAQUID. 


it all around in the parish that Lawyer Snell offered 
himself to Kezia Millet, and she drove him off with 
her broom. And now he is after the Widow Green.' 

I’m afraid Joshua Snell cares too much for money. 
It is a pity, for he has some excellent qualities.” 

“ And as if Kezia would marry the Lord Mayor of 
London, if it involved her parting with that child ! 
I declare, her devotion to it is something perfectly 
beautiful. Its own mother could not have had a 
purer, more unsel%h love for it. Well, I’ll step in to 
see how it is, and agree on some method of keeping 
its father acquainted with its condition.” 

ruth’s journal. 

Kezia’s spirit is a good deal broken by loss of sleep, 
and after coming nearer to a quarrel with her than I 
ever did in my life, I have her baby in bed with me, 
and mine in a crib by my side. And I have got to 
loving it so that I dread her getting strong and well 
again, and taking it from me. I think it cries less 
with me than it did with her, and it certainly begins 
to grow pretty. I do believe that to sleep with a baby 
each side of you is just the nicest, sweetest thing in 
the world ! Dear little soft, helpless creatures. How 
happy, how happy I am ! 

Mrs. Strong has been here and leproved me for not 
writing to the extra baby’s father, who, she says, is 
suffering great anxiety about it. Certainly I have 


I^HANK^S BABY TO HER PAPA, 316 


been very thoughtless and selfish. I was so taken up 
with my own blessed lot that I entirely forgot how 
lonely and sorrowful his life must be. 

Oh, I know what I’ll do ! I’ll get mother to write 
to the baby’s father. She is always so sweet and kind 
about everything now. And really, I have a deal to 
do. I wonder whether Kezia’s baby has any name ? 

I have asked her, and she shrinks from it just as I 
did ; but Kezia hit on such a capital plan that all 
difficulties disappear. Kezia is bright ; there’s no 
doubt about it. 

‘‘ La ! let the bahy write to her pa herself! ” quoth 
she. 

FRANK’S BABY TO HER PAPA. 

My Dear Papa : I am tied into the high chair by 
Kezia’s apron, and am going to write you a letter all 
by myself. When you went away I used to cry a 
great deal, especially at night, but Kezia never got 
out of patience with me, and would get out of bed 
and walk up and down with me till it is a wonder she 
did not drop. One thing was, my clothes were not 
wann enough, and then they were too long, and tangled 
my limbs up so that I did not know which was which 
I wear a red flannel dress now, with pretty black dots 
all over it, and have shoes and stockings on my feet. 
And I sleep in flannel nightgowns, and on a flannel 
sheet. I have got a silver porringer of my own, and 


316 


PEMAQUID. 


have bread and milk in it. And I have four little 
white teeth. Kezia loves me to distraction. Do you 
suppose she will ever give me back to you ? /don’t. 
And there is another thing. What is my name? 
Kezia calls me Scrawny, but I think it is only for fun. 
And some of them call me the extra baby ! I think, 
myself, I ought to be named for my own mamma. 

Your Baby. 

papa's reply. 

My Dear Little Eapy^You are named for 
your own mamma. Your name is Alice Neill Wes- 
ton. I am very thankful that you have learned to 
write, and if it is not asking f.oo much, I hope I shall 
hear from you once a month. I love you very dearly, 
and if I ever have a home of my own shall coax Kezia 
to let you come there. You do not know that your 
papa is a minister now and has preached a good 
many times. His heart is in his blessed work, and 
next to his work, his heart is in Pemaquid. 

Your Loving Papa. 

kezia visits the parsonage. 

*‘Well, now. Mis’ Strong, our Ruth’s took both 
them children and aint left me none.” 

“ But, Kezia, she only does it for your good. You 
were getting all worn out from loss of sleep.” 

“That’s jist a notion of our Ruth’s. I got down 
in the mouth one time, for fear it wasn’t consistent 


KEZIA VISITS THE PARSONAGE. 317 


to love a fellow-creature as I loved that baby. And 
our Ruth thought my spirit was broke with hardship. 
And then there’s another thing. I always could see 
through a millstone, and I see right through Frank 
Weston when he was here. He’d give his two eyes 
to make up with our Ruth. And if he gets a chance 
he’ll come and carry her off, and I shall lose her and 
my baby both to onct.” 

“ Now I call that borrowing trouble. And don’t 
you see that you can't lose the baby unless a wise 
Providence wills it ? ” 

“ Of course I wouldn’t fly in the face of Providence.” 

One of the best things about a Christian is that he 
is not afraid of evil tidings. He enjoys what he has 
as long as it lasts, and when it is taken away he en- 
joys God. Take my word for it. He will never let 
anything befall you that you can not justify Him in 
doing.” 

“Well, it’s strengthening to hear you talk. You 
must know all about it after all you’ve been through. 
I expect my faith’s been dreadful weak. And this 
poor wailin’ little infant has got such a grip on 
my feelin’s that it nigh about kills me to see it 
suffer. And yet I’m such a selfish creetur I’m a-doin’ 
all I can to keep it alive, bless its little heart. Well, 
good-by, Mis’ Strong, I won’t hinder you no longer, 
for you have all the troubles in the parish laid right 
onto your shoulders. Come, Scrawny, we’ll go home, 
and when we git there I’ll sing to you.” 


818 


PEMAQUTJD. 


** Mis’ Strong, she’s made the burden light 
That weighed upon my heart, 

And made me see that from my babe 
I- could consent to part. 

The very hand that strikes a blow, 

Wipes bitter tears away ; 

When earthly joys and comforts fly, 

The Lord will be my stay. 

Now, precious baby, go to sleep 
Upon my faithful breast ; 

Forget your weakness and your pain-— 

Sleep on and take your rest. 

I loved our Samuel and Ruth, 

But not as I love you, 

For they were well, and did not need 
Both love and pity, too. 

O, little sad and tired face. 

Upon my knees I pray 
That He who infants dearly loves 
Would take your pains away; 

Or else — how can I say the words ? — 

From heaven come marching down 
And take you up to be with Him, 

And wear a martyr’s crown. 

Yes, there are infant martyrs there. 

And with the eye of faith 
I see them smiling at the words 
The loving Master saith. 

So, little pilgrim, sigh no more. 

Your pangs in patience bear; 

Your path is rough and flinty here — 

’Twill be all glory there ! ” 

baby’s second LETTER TO PAPA. 

My Dear Papa : I am a year old to-day. Do you 
remember that ? 1 have had ever so many presents. 


BABY'S SECOND LETTER TO PAPA, 31fi 


The one I like best is a great black dog. I smiled 
when he put his cold nose up to my face. Then I 
heard somebody burst out crying, and I was fright- 
ened, and thought I had done something naughty 
Bat everybody kissed me, and said it was such a re- 
lief to see a smile on my poor little sad face. So then 
I smiled again, and there was more crying and kissing. 
I watch the other baby running about — he isn’t a 
baby, but a great boy — and begin to think I should 
like to run about too. I did puU hold of the leg of 
the table and get up onto my feet, but Kezia set 
up such a scream that I thought 1 had done some- 
thing naughty, and so sat down again. They all say 
that I do not look like you, and so must be like my 
own mamma, who must have been Ic'-ely. Mr. and 
Mrs. Woodford are very well and ver) happy ; so is 
Kezia. She gets a good night’s sleep -iow, and the 
color is coming back into her cheeks I send you 
my love, and am Your baby, 

Alice Neili Weston. 


XXVIIL 


All this, and heaven too?* 

ruth’s journal. 

K EZIA seemed so restless after I stole her baby 
from her, that I have lent her my little Samuel. 
So now we have put the crib up into the garret and 
each goes to bed armed and equipped with her 
charge. Meantime I have grown so fond of baby 
Alice that I don’t know but I love her almost as 
much as Kezia does. As for father, he makes no dif- 
ference between the children. He considers himself 
grandfather to both. Whatever is going to become 
of us all, if baby Alice is claimed by her papa, I do 
not dare to think. Sometimes I fear Providence will 
settle the question by taking her to Himself. That 
thought throws my soul into a most unholy toss. 

Mrs. Strong persuaded me to spend a week or ten 
days at the parsonage, baby and all. I had a per- 
fectly delightful time. Father Strong is like a shock 
of corn fully ripe. He has excellent health, and is as 
happy as the day is long. I asked Mrs. Strong if she 
thought we should ever have to give up baby Alice 
(830) 


RV) JOURNAL, 


321 


She said Ke 2 ia mi^ht have to part with her, but it 
was not likely I should. Then I said it was cruel to 
let Kezia take care of it when she was ailing and 
troublesome, and when she had nursed her into 
health have the child snatched from her. 

“ As to that,” says she, it is six of one, and half 
a dozen of the other. I don’t see but you take as 
much care of her as Kezia did. And don’t you see 
that the Rev. Frank Weston’s daughter is not to be 
brought up in a kitchen ? ” 

1 had not thought of that. 

“ It was to you he brought the child,” she went on. 
“ But there were two facts in the programme : one he 
was ignorant of, and one he could not foresee. He 
expected to die and bequeath his child to you. Don’t 
you see what a high opinion he had of you when he 
selected you to hold this sacred trust? And if he 
had died, should you have hesitated for one minute 
to accept this trust and all the self-sacrifice it in- 
volved ? 

But he did not die, and what was his embarrass- 
ment to find you, as he supposed, married, and with a 
child of your own ! Then Kezia’s extraordinary affec- 
tion for the baby led him to do the next best thing he 
could do —leave it with her. It would have been the 
deatli of it to expose it to another journey. Of course 
he had to yield to circumstances. But if the little 
creature lives, as soon as she passes beyond babyhood 

die must be in your charge, not Kezia’s.” 

14 * 


322 


£EMAQUIjD. 


But perhaps her papa will marry again. In that 
case he might not need Alice.*’ 

My dear, he will need her. And don’t you see 
the simple, natural way to solve this problem — how 
Frank can reclaim his child and yet not take her from 
you ?” 

I tried to think of a way, but couldn’t. “ I advise 
you, then,” she said, gradually to attach Kezia to lit- 
tle Samuel and attach Alice to yourself. Do it very 
gradually, so that she will not perceive it.” 

“ But Samuel should not be brought up in the 
kitchen any more than Alice,” I said, quite puzzled. 

Why, it will be the old story over again. Kezia 
was all the mother you and your brother had till you 
went to your grandma’s, and he was sent to schcol. 
Don’t look so puzzled, dear child. I should not have 
spoken a word, but that Providence has already 
spoken first. You love baby Alice, for aught I see, 
just as well as you do little Samuel, perhaps better, 
for ‘ the bird that we nurse is the bird that we love.’ ” 

I said I began to love her most tenderly the night 
I took her to sleep with me. 

“ Well, now, you and Kezia had both better leave 
off saying inine and thine. Love the two children 
together, just as a father and mother do theirs.” 

Well, I forgot all this talk in a great surprise that 
met me when I reached home. Mother had packed 
me off to the parsonage while she had my room made 
into a sort of earthly paradise. It had been papered 


KEZIA GOES HOME ON A VISIT, 323 


and painted, there was lovely new furniture, there 
were pictures on the walls, and a flower-stand covered 
with beautiful plants, all in bloom. There is not 
another room in Pemaquid to be compared with it. 
And I never dreamed that mother had such exquisite 
taste. How disagreeable it must have been to her to 
live so many years among our homely old furniture ! 
Oh, and there was a beautiful bird in a cage, singing 
away like one without a care, and a great globe, full of 
goldfish, that went darting about like little flashes of 
lightning — and to think that it was mother who had 
all this done, while she left her own room as bleak 
and bare as ever ! 

I could hardly stand it. Why should I, of all 
creatures in the world, be so loved and cared for? 

Well, I know what I shall do ; I shall just pack fa- 
ther and mother off* on a journey, and turn their 
room into fairy-land ! 

A 

KEZIA GOES HOME ON A VISIT. 

“You see, mother. Mis’ Woodford says to me, 
‘ Kezia,’ says she, ^ you go home and make your 
mother a visit.’ Well, I knowed I couldn’t take my 
baby with me, though I wanted you to see it dread- 
ful. So says I, ‘ Mother used to be awful fond of our 
Samuel, and she’d be proper glad to see his little 
young son, who’s his pa’s livin’ image.’ 

Well, Mis’ Woodford she’s growed so agreeable 


824 PEMAQUID, 

that I believe she’d a let me take the Squire along if 
I’d asked her. 

< Why, Ruth is the one to ask,’ says she. 

“ Of course I knowed that all along, but I knowed 
she’d like to be asked all the same. 

Well, now, aint this little young ’un jest a copy 
of his pa ? But then you ought to see my baby ! 
Such a poor little white lamb as it is! — only I’m all 
the time in a toss for fear its pa will take it away. 
And, mother, I tell you what, I made an idol of that 
’ere child, and when I found it out, I fasted and prayed, 
and prayed and fasted, and was so sorry for my sin 
that I got wore out. Our Ruth, she thought I was 
wore with broken nights, and nothin’ would do but she 
must take the screaming idol to sleep with her, so 
that I could rest. But, la ! mother, I couldn’t rest 
with sin on my conscience, so I used to set up on 
end in bed a-pleadin’ with the Lord to make up with 
me and give me back my peace of mind. And at last 
He did. But He said as long’s Ruth’s strength held 
out, I had better let her keep my baby nights, ‘ For 
you can fast from a baby,’ says He, ‘just as you fast 
from meat and drink,’ says He. Do you think there’s 
any harm in prayin’ in bed this awful cold weather, 
if you set on end? I wouldn’t undertake to pray 
a-laying down any^more than I’d break a Command- 
ment a-purpose. Of course I always pray by the 
side of my bed, night and mornin’, with nothin’ but 
my nightgown on, no matter how cold it is. That s 


KEZIA GOES HOME ON A VISIT. 325 


mortifying to the flesh, and keeps down the body 
wonderful. I tell you what, about four o’clock in the 
morning, my room bein’ on the north side of the 
house, it takes natur’ and grace combined to say 
your prayers, especially when the snow beats down 
the chimbly and catches you by the feet. 

Now, mother, you jest lop down in your old sofy 
and rest yourself, and I’ll git dinner. You aint tired ? 
Well, I didn’t suppose you was; but I should think 
you ...might make believe, jest to please me. Still, I 
s’pose you’ll want to be follerin’ me round to hear me 
talk. There ! you may grind the coflee if you want 
to ; only do it easy, so as not to drown my voice. 
You see Mis’ Woodford has growed awful fond of 
our Ruth, and she says to me one day, says she, ‘ I’ve 
a good mind to fit up Ruth’s bedroom beautiful,’ 
says she. 

“ ‘ What’s the use o’ that ? ’ says I. * Aint her room 
comfortable?’ says I. 

“ ‘ I like to see a pretty young girl with pretty 
things about her,’ says she. 

“ * But what’s the use ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ What is the use of white lilies ? ’ says she, ' and 
what’s the use of green grass ? ’ says she. 

‘‘ ‘ Ask the cows,’ says I. 

“ ‘ But wouldn’t it taste just as gpod if it was as red 
as strawberries or as yellow as buttercups ? says she. 
‘ But think how our eyes would ache if it were ! ’ says 
she. 


326 


FEMAQUID 


“ * And IVe set my heart on fitting up Ruth’s room 
but she must be got out of the way first. I’ll ash 
Mrs. Strong to invite her to the parsonage for a 
couple of weeks, and make a fine surprise for her/ 
jays she. 

“ So off she goes to Bosting and buys all sorts of 
things ; why, every time the stage come in it brought 
boxes and I don’t know what all, and everything was 
cleared out of Ruth’s'room, and painters set to work. 
And it beats all natur’ what elegant things was put 
into that ’ere bedroom. I never see nothin’ like it, 
and you never see nothin’ like it, either. 

I kep’ my eye on the Squire, a-wonderin’ if he’d 
think it consistent to make such bowers of bliss in 
this vale of tears, but he never said nothin’, but went 
round rubbin’ his hands and lookin’ awful pleased. 
And I declare, when we came to make up the bed if 
there wasn’t two handsome George Rex blankets 
ready to put on it, and a white quilt. I don’t think 
I could compose my mind to pray amongst such 
finery. But our Ruth she’s different. And when she 
came home she cried for joy. Only she said every- 
thing was too nice, and Mis’ Woodford was too kind. 

Well,’ says I, ‘ if you can’t be happy in this 
beautiful room you can’t be happy nowhere,’ says 1. 

“ ‘ Happy ! ’ she cries. ‘ Why, Kezia Millet, I could 
be happy in a dungeon and wretched in a palace.** 

“ And then she went to her bookcase and takes 
down an old book, and reads out this ’ere : 


KEZIA GOES HOME ON A VISIT 327 


" The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven/ 

Kow who can make head or tail of that ’ere. How 
could heaven be in hell, or what’s more contrary to 
natur’, hell be in heaven? ‘Well,’ says I, all beat 
out, ‘ there aint nothin’ like that ’ere in the Bible, and 
it does say there that having food and raiment we 
oughter be content. And it don’t uphold an ele- 
gant carpet, nor elegant furniture, nor George Rex 
blankets, nor nothin’ of the sort, and I mistrust such 
things as making it too agreeable here below for us, 
pilgrims and strangers as we be, travellers at the very 
best on’t.’ Mis’ Woodford she laughed, and says she, 
‘ Neither does it say anything in the Bible about 
roast turkeys, or m.ince pies, or cranberry tarts, and a 
host of other things your soul delights to set before 
us. The fact is, hardly two people agree about its 
teachings on minor points. The main thing is to 
agree on vital points. And I am sure you and I 
unite on those. As to George Rex blankets, how 
could they be in the Bible ? And surely it is right for 
Ruth to sleep warm.’ 

“ So she went on argufyin’ like a lawyer, which she 
nad ought to ha’ been, and though Satan can quote 
Scripter, I never can at the right minnit. 

“‘The fact is,’ she went on, ‘you are a Papist at 
heart, and I wonder you do not wear haircloth next 
your skin.’ To tliink of your poor old Keziey being 
called a Papist ! But it was done so good-natured 


328 


PEMAQUID. 


and kind like I didn’t feel riled at all, only struck up 
so that I couldn’t speak if I was to suffer. 

“ ‘ You Pemaquiders,’ says she, * are all alike in one 
respect. You think God hates beautiful things and 
beautiful employments. But who is there in all the 
universe that has made such myriads of exquisite 
things as He has? And do you suppose He is dis- 
pleased when we admire the works of His hand? 
Look at these flowers ! Look at this bird and listen 
to his wonderful voice ! Look at these goldfish ! 
Was it by accident that they were formed in beauty? 
Oh, you don’t know what a new world I live in since 
I began to love Him.’ And the tears come rollin’ 
down her cheeks. There, mother, you’ve no call to 
go to crying. I wouldn’t cry as easy as you do for 
anything. 

“ So Mis’ Woodford she went on, and says she, * I 
have done so much to make Ruth unhappy that I 
can’t do enough to please and console her now,’ says 
she. There, I’ve got everything on to bile, and we’ll 
have a biled dinner, and now I guess I’ll put Samuel 
onto the sled and haul him over to see the neighbors. 
At any rate, I’ll give him a ride. Oh, no, I’ll set the 
table fust. 

“ And so you think there aint no harm in prayin’ 
irregular, settin’ on end, ’s long’s I pray regular on 
my knees ^ And you don’t see no harm in our Ruth’i 
having an earthly paradise in her bedroom ? 


KEZIA GOES HOME OH A VISIT, 328 


** Well, I’m awful glad, for our Ruth aint one of 
the kind to have her head turned easy: 

“ But Satan this he knoweth not, 

And he has climbed to yonder spot, 

And, like a spider in her hole, 

He’s watchin’ careful for her soul. 

Ah ha ! ah ha ! ah ha ! quoth he, 

I to Ruth Woodford have the key; 

She’ll love her new possessions so 
That tight she’ll cleave to things below : 

Short prayers she’ll by her bedside make, 

In place of those that made me quake ; 

Her Bible and her hymn-book, they 
Will by degrees be tossed away. 

No tears of penitence she’ll shed, 

But she will feed her bird instead ; 

Yes, all she’ll know of saintly showers 
Will be to splash them on her flowers ! 

Well, Mr. Satan, have you done ? 

Is this poor stuff the web you’ve spun ? 

Ha, ha ! It’s now my turn to laugh ! 

You think you know too much by half. 

Do you suppose a girl that had 
An offer from a likely lad, 

And give to him a love more tnie 
Than the contempt I feel for you. 

And yet consistent could remain 
When crawlin’, creepin’, in you came, 

And tried to wean her heart from heaven— 

And futhermore, when seven times seven, 

A furnace was lit up, and she 
Flung in, its greedy food to be. 

And she could instantly begin 

To kiss the hand that throwed her in — 


830 


PEMAQUID. 


Did you suppose your chance was bright 
To catch her then and hold her tight? 
Weepin’ endured a night, and then 
The mornin' came with joy again ; 

Yes, all her heart ran o’er with joy, 
A-claspin’ of her baby boy. 

But prayed she less for love of him ? 

Did her strong faith grow dull and dim ? 
O Satan, I’m ashamed of you ! 

After all this to hope to do 

The maid a mischief with the things 

Mis’ Woodford, her peace-offerings.” 


MRS. WOODFORD SEES MRS. STRONG. 

Was Ruth as much pleased as I expected ? Yes; 
she was delighted. Kezia was a little troubled at 
first. She was afraid to see Ruth enjoy herself lest 
she should ‘ cleave too much to things below.’ Nor 
could she see any use in having birds, and flowers, 
and fishes, and pictures. So we laid our heads to- 
gether, Ruth and I, and agreed to send the good 
creature home for u week, and take her room in hand. 
First we had it painted. Then I went around to the 
neighbors’ garrets, as I had already done for Ruth, 
and bought old furniture that had stood idle and 
useless for years, and had it repaired aiid varnished. 
Then I took twenty yards of new rag- carpeting of old 
Ma’am Huse, and we put that down, and last of all, 
I put in a stove. That was Ruth’s idea. She said 
baby Alice cried much less at night when with her 
and that it must be berause her room was w^arm 


MRS. WOODFORD SEES MRS. STRONG. 331 

And when I think how much the good old soul 
prays, and what blessings she thereby brings into 
this house, and how many hours she has speii^ in 
midwinter walking her room with that crying child, 
I feel really hurt at my thoughtlessness in not giving 
her a fire long ago. 

“Then Ruth, who is ingenious and handy about 
such things, made bright, warm curtains, had a book- 
shelf put up, and arrayed books on it, and made a 
pretty little table-cover, and last of all, hung on the 
walls some colored prints of Scriptural scenes — which 
she used to think perfectly splendid, till I taught her 
better — and a cosier, sweeter room none need desire. 
So when the stage drove up, Ruth and I were sitting 
in it with our work and the baby. Kezia rushed in 
and sought us all over the house. 

“ At last the baby set up one of her shrieks, and 
that drew the good creature into the room. At first 
she was so wild with joy at getting home, that she 
did not notice anything; when she did, she fell back 
into the nearest chair, and burst out crying in such a 
tempest that poor little bewildered Samuel began to 
cry too. 

“ ‘ Well,’ she said at last, ‘ Tm clean beat out ! Me 
have a fire to say my prayers by ? Me have hand- 
.some curtings ? Me have elegant Prodigal Sons, and 
prayin’ Samuels, and good old Elijahs a-hangin’ round 
my room ? Why, I sha’n’t never want to go to heaven. 
When I git my invitation, I shall hang back and say 


332 


PEMAQUID. 


I’ve got so much to live for. Well, if you pamper me 
up this way, some au ful thing will happen to keep me 
down. For I ha\ e to be kep’ down dreadful. The 
baby, she’ll die. Or her pa will carry her off. Or 
our Ruth, she’ll get married. If it aint one thing, 
it’ll be another. Well, I’ll fast entire once a week, 
and I’ll fast partial once a week, and may be I can 
keep this ’ere beautiful room and my peace o* mind 
too.’ ” 

‘‘ And thfen I suppose she fell to singing ? ” 

‘‘Yes, but Ruth forgot to write it down. And new 
don’t you think I am a happy woman?’ 


XXIX. 


L’absence diminue les petites amours et augmente les grandes 
passions, comme le vent qui 6teint les bougies et qui rallume 
le feu ! ” 


RUTIl’S JOURNAL. 

T THOUGHT I knew what trouble meant. I 
T thought my heart had been broken all to pieces — 
yes, into such little pieces that it never could be put 
together and be the same heart again. It only 
shows how little I knew. 

Baby Alice was now two years old, and was run- 
ning about, and growing a little stronger. Somehow 
Kezia and I were more taken up with her than with 
Samuel ; for he was a great, strong, hearty boy, getting 
into all sorts of mischief, and wonderfully able to 
take care of himself. He never wanted to be held in 
our laps and told stories, or to hear Kezia sing. All 
he wanted was plenty to eat and drink, and to get 
out-of-doors and race and tear and climb, and go 
scampering into the neighbors’ houses, and hear and 
see everything that was going on in Pemaquid. 
Everybody knew him, and everybody liked him ; and 
he knew everybody and liked everybody. But Alice 

was made to be petted. She would sit by the hour 

(333J 


334 


PEMAQUID, 


hearing Kezia sing. She would sit by the hour in 
my lap, wanting nothing but love for her pastime. It 
was not everybody who loved her. Many people 
thought of her as nothing but a puny, uninteresting 
child. But old Father Strong always said from the 
very beginning that she was not made of common 
clay. 

Well — well — dearie me, have I got to write it 
down ? 

It was a day in July, and I went down into the 
orchard with both the children. Mother and Kezia 
had gone to the female prayer-meeting, and father 
was at the office. I sat down under a tree, cuddling 
Alice up to my heart, and feeling very peaceful and 
happy. Kezia and I had done saying my baby and 
thy baby ; it v/as our Samuel and our Alice, and we 
both felt the better for it. 

Samuel had been skirmishing round among the 
trees, and I had almost forgotten him, for though he is 
always getting into scrapes, he is always getting out 
of them. But now he came, screaming with delight, 
astride on a man’s shoulders; and the man was 
Frank. 

* My poor little girl, have I frightened you so?” 
he said, putting Samuel down. I suppose I had 
turned pale, for I felt faint. I got over it in a min- 
ute, and said, Alice, darling, this is your papa.” 
She stretched out her arms to him, and he took her 
but he looked at me. 



“ My poor little girl, have I frightened you so ? ” he said, putting 

Samuel down. Page 334. 



RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


335 


“ Ruth,” he said. 

I was silent and distressed. 

“ Ruth,” he said, I never so much as expected 
you to look at the Frank Weston of past times. He 
was utterly unworthy of you. It is another man who 
comes to you now, with all the boyish love and ad- 
miration of his youth, and a new and better affection, 
and a more appreciative esteem, than was possible in 
immature age.” 

He paused, holding Alice close, but still not look- 
ing at her. 

“ Have you no eyes for your child?” I said at last. 
For the silence of that July afternoon was awful. 

He held her out now, and there was a gleam of 
love and pride in his eyes as he gazed at the lovely 
little creature. And I saw that this was indeed an- 
other man. But it was Frank I loved ; and I did not 
love this stranger. 

Ruth,” he began again, “ you have never for- 
given me. I should not have expected forgiveness 
from any one but you. But I hoped — I thought the 
child had been forming a new tie between us, and 
that you would come and help me in my work. My 
child, I was unfaithful to you for a time, and undei 
dire temptation; but only for a time. You are the 
only human being with whom 1 was ever thoroughly 
in love. I had a passion for Juliet— an infatuation 
that passed for love ; but it was all a delusion. The 
instant I saw her in her true colors I fled from her as 


336 


PEMAQUin, 


from a demon. But I felt that I had lost you forever 
And under this conviction, a reckless man, looking 
for happiness no longer, but willing to give it if 1 
could, I married this child’s mother. This fact com- 
plicates my cause, I am well aware. But I am not 
afraid that He who reads the human heart counts 
that a deed ill done.” 

He paused, and there was another awful silence. 
If I had only been like Kezia I could have burst out 
and put an end to it ; but I could not speak. All 
the old wounds I thought healed were bleeding 
afresh. I looked away from him to a sight I usually 
delight to see — the -men pitching the hay onto the 
cart ; Samuel gamboling about, waiting to be perched 
on its top and ride to the barn, wild with glee. But 
the sight jarred now; and the tears began to stream 
down like rain. He came and tried to take my hand, 
but I drew it back and shrank away from him. And 
at last I could stop crying and speak calmly. 

Who did you consult before you came here ^ ” 
I asked. 

“ God, and my own heart,” he replied. 

“ And no woman ? ” 

“None.” 

“ Then I might have been spared all this pain. 
Any woinan would have said to you, ‘You mu-^*^ not 
go!’” 

It was now his turn to be silent. There came upon 
the stillness the cheerful voices of the men at th^>f 


RUTH'S JOURNAL. 


337 


work ; the sweet note of a bird ; the harsh, yet not 
wholl)' unpleasant cawing of passing cows ; best of 
all, the sound of wheels, and mother and Kezia 
driving in. Kezia left mother at the house, drove to 
the barn, and came strolling back, singing to herself. 

“ Kezia ! ” I cried out. 

She stopped singing, and with three strides was at 
my side. 

“Whatever have you bin a-sayin’ to our Ruth, 
Frank Weston? ” she shrieked out. “Air you a-goin' 
to take away our baby, or what is to pay ? 

“Nothing has been said about the baby,” he re- 
plied, “ but I thank you, Kezia, with all my heart, 
for the kind care you have taken of her.” 

“You thank me? I aint taken no more care on 
her than our Ruth has, nor loved her any better, 
except one spell when I made a graven image out 
on her, which warn’t of no earthly use to her and 
was a dreadful grief and pain to me. But it’s no use 
for you to carry her off. Men aint no more fit to 
bring up babies than cats air. And it’s far healthier 
down here to Pemaquid than it is where you be, 
where they say you could cut the smoke with 
knives.” 

“ That is true,” he said, with a great sigh. He was 
looking so steadily at the child that I got up softly 
and stole away. 

Oh, what made him come ? Why did God let him 

come? Dear me — Oh, dear me! 

15 


338 


PEMAQUID 


FRANK WESTON CALLS ON MRS. STRONG. 

‘‘Why, Frank, is this really you? How you have 
changed ! I can hardly believe that this is our boy 
Frank. Well, I should know you had been in deep 
waters if I had not been told it. And now you are 
a full-grown man, every inch Of it, and the words 
* hard work * are written all over your face. You have 
come to see your baby, I suppose. Isn’t she a sweet 
little creature?” 

“ I saw her in the arms of a sweet little creature, 
whom I hoped to make her mother. But that hope 
has been dispelled, and I must go back to my work 
alone. And I richly deserve my fate.” 

“You don’t mean to say you have been making 
love to Ruth ? Oh, why didnt you consult me about 
it first? Poor little thing! I can fancy how you 
have cut her to the quick. How you men do bungle 
about your work. What is the use of women in the 
world if it is not to keep you all out of hot water?” 

“ I never dreamed of wounding her. I fancied she 
v ould be proud to find how, in the depths of my 
heart, I had been true to her. And I thought her 
one of the sort to love once and love forever.” 

“ Girls of that sort only exist in books. To have 
kept on loving you when she believed you to be 
Juliet’s husband would have been both weak and 
wicked.” 


FRANK WESTON CALL, 


339 


“ But she turned so pale when she saw me that I 
had little doubt she loved me still.’^ 

“ That is nothing to the purpose. The sight of 
you revived the old pain.** 

“ Did she suffer so very much, then ? ** 

“ She suffered, but silently and in faith and patience. 
No one saw any violent outbreak of grief after the 
first day. And later on there came the peaceable 
fruits of her grief.’* 

‘‘ But, oh, how she cried this afternoon. Fancy, if 
you can, how a man feels when he witnesses such 
anguish and knows he has caused it, and is powerless 
to do anything for its relief.** 

“Yes; you set all the old wounds bleeding, no 
doubt. 1 am sorry for the poor child and sorry for 
you. Your love for her slumbered and then awoke 
again. Her love for you is not asleep, it is deadS 
“ You think there is no hope for me, then ? ’* 

“ I am not prepared to say that. But there will be 
no manner of use in approaching her now, in any 
character, much less in that of the Frank Weston of 
times past. Possibly her love for your child may 
plead for you in some distant future. At any rate, 
never approach her again without consulting Mrs. 
Woodford or myself.** 

“ I will not. I see that I have made an almost fa- 
tal mistake. And, after all, it is not necessary that I 
should marry again. My people are very kind to me 
and I am happy in my work. And, if it is not pre- 


840 


PEMAQUID. 


sumption to say so, I know something of what Christ 
can be to a lonely and desolate and abased soul. I 
don’t know but every form of suffering pays, I think 
1 shall go back to my work more saddened and sober- 
ed by this experience, and so better fitted to be a son 
of consolation to other weary hearts. For everybody, 
sooner or later, takes his turn.” 

“ That is true. But if I were you I would not be 
so much saddened by this event as chastened by it 
There is all the difference in the world between these 
two results of trial. In sadness there is a touch of 
self-will and intention to give way. But the chastened 
soul has thrown self-will overboard, and while it suf- 
fers it is patient, it is courageous, it knows depths of 
sweetness in the midst of its pain. For it get^^ ‘ drops 
of honey out of the Rock Christ.’ ” 

“ It does indeed, it does indeed. I would not 
change my lot for that of any man on earth, however 
prospered. What internal evidence we have of the 
fundamental truths of Christianity, when our hearts 
faint for heaviness and we are held up by an unseen 
Power, as evident to our consciousness as if it were a 
thing to be seen or touched. As I walked my lonely 
room last night, it seemed too good to be true fhat I 
knew Christ and could preach Him. I shudder when 
I think of my giddy boyhood and youth, and the 
danger I ran of making shipwreck of my faith. But 
now, Mrs. Strong about my precious little Alice. 
What ought I to do? Take her away? You know 


FRANK WESTON'S CALL, 


341 


how I love children, now delightful it would be to 
hear the sound of little feet in my study once mote.” 

** If you take her away now, I have not the small- 
est doubt you will lose her. But for the love and 
prayers of those devoted creatures, Ruth and Kezia, 
she never could have lived as long as she has done. 
And it would be an ill moment for Ruth to have to 
part with the beloved little one ; besides, your only 
faint chance of winning Ruth will be through the 
child. Don’t you see that the moment you remove 
it you lose all opportunity of communication with 
her?” 

“ Yes, so I do. But how am I to have news of my 
child ? Is it likely that Ruth will be willing to write 
me any more letters in the baby’s name ? ” 

‘‘ Let me think a minute. Did she ever allude to 
herself in those letters ? ” 

“ Never. That was, to me, a hopeful sign. I 
thought if she were entirely indifferent to me all shy- 
ness would disappear, and she would write mere busi- 
ness letters about little Alice with perfect freedom. 
But you women understand such things better than 
we men do.” 

I see no reason why Ruth should not go on issu- 
ing her bulletins the same as ever, so long as this 
does not oblige her to put herself forward in the 
least. She has an unusual amount of the rarest kind 
of sense in the world — common sense , she is not 
proud or vindictive. By this time she is accusing 


342 


PEMAQUin, 


herself of selfishness in letting you see how she had 
suffered, and she will be glad, since she can do no 
more for you, to render you this little service." 

I want to see my child once more before I go ; 
can it be managed ? " 

“ Certainly. Kezia will bring her here or take her 
to the tavern, just as you like." 

“ Oh, there is another thing. Ruth must have 
talked a great deal about me, for Alice came to me 
the moment she heard who I was." 

‘^And why Ruth, pray? Why not Kezia? Be- 
sides, Alice is very confiding. She always would go to 
any one who looked kindly at her. No, young man, 
your name has never passed Ruth’s lips since the day 
she received your cruel letter. She forbade all of us 
ever speaking it in her hearing. She loves your child 
for its own sake, not yours. And as to the letters 
about her, it cost her a great effort to begin to write 
them ; but after awhile, I doubt not, she ceased to 
connect herself with them at all ; it was pure com- 
munication, to her mind, between father and child. 
If I were perfectly sure you were worthy of Ruth I 
might be tempted, perhaps, to speak a good word for 
you." 

‘‘ Let me assure you, then, that I am not worthy 
of her. I am utterly unworthy. I do not know 
where I ever got the assurance to come to see her. 
But some of the letters she wrote in my baby’s name 
— nay, in fact all of them — gave me the idea that they 


FRANK WESTONS CALL, 


343 


were written by one whose heart was at rest, and I 
thought, I hoped, she knew how precious those let- 
ters were. Why, when I first saw her, sitting in the 
orchard, my eye overlooked my own child ; I seemed 
to be a boy again, and she the little wild rose I knew 
and loved. But I deserve all the pain I am suffering 
and shall suffer.’’ 

“There’s Kezia, now, with the baby. I’ll call 
her in.” 

“La, now, Frank Weston, be you to Pemaquid 
still ? We thought you’d gone. Well, I’m dreadful 
glad you aint gone, for I was left to say things to you 
yesterday afternoon that I was ashamed of when I 
come to say my prayers. Anyhow my bark’s wuss’n 
my bite, and I was riled when I see our Ruth’s face 
all swelled up with cryin’, and you that oughter been 
strung up as high as Haman, a-settin’ there lookin’ 
like a pictur’ (ye’r handsome, I will allow), and dress- 
ed up as if you’d jest come out of a bandbox. And 
if I expressed my mind too free, you must excuse my 
ways ; I wouldn’t hurt a flea a-purpose, much less this 
ownty downty precious lamb its pa. 

“ La, I’ve sung to her about you till she could ha’ 
picked you out among a hundred pa’s. Not for your 
virtue’s sake, but to warn her ag’inst follerin’ in your 
ways. Not to say that your ways aint improved, for 
I see by your face they air. And our Ruth and me, 
we’ll bring her up in the fear and admonition of 
the Lord. She shall be took to the Eternal Associa- 


844 


PEMAQUID, 


tion and learn her Catechism and her Primer, and see 
John Rogers burnt at the stake, and Xerxes a-lyin* 
in his coffin, and Zebedee up in a tree his Lord to 
see ; Oh, never you fear but she shall know all there is 
to know! And I tell you what ! You come to see 
her every summer, and I’ll fetch her here, or to the 
tavern, or wherever you say, only don’t you never 
come a-poaching after our Ruth no more. 

“ This ’ere baby favors its ma, don’t it ? Anyhow 
she aint a grain like you. Aint she a little pictur’ 
And the Squire thinks he’s her grandpa, arid nobody 
can persuade him he aint. And we jest take the 
money you send us for her and heave it into the con- 
tribution-box 1 

Well, if you’ve done eatin* of her up. I’ll be goin 
with what’s left of her. Good-by, Frank. Good-by 
Mis’ Strong. Kiss your pa, lambkin ; you won’t see 
him ag’in for a whole year.” 


XXX. 


“ Meeting thus upon the threshold going out and coming in : 
Going out unto the triumph, coming in unto the fight ; 

Coming in unto the darkness, going out unto the light 1” 

— Isabella Craig. 

* The years of old age are stalls in the cathedral of life, in which 
for aged men to sit and listen, and meditate, and be patient 
till the service is over, and in which they may get themselves 
ready to say Amen at last, with all their hearts, and souls, and 
strength.” — Mountford. 

ruth’s journal. 

T WO great events have occurred here in Pemaquid 
that have given me something to think of besides 
myself. 

I don’t see how God can be so good to me. 

Mrs. Strong asked me to come to the parsonage 
and take care of Father Strong while she was laid 
aside. There is not a girl in the village who would 
not have felt this, as I did, a great honor and delight. 
Ministering to him is somewhat like ministering to 
one of the old prophets. I went right away, so as 
to learn all his ways, and never did I spend two more 
delightful weeks. He was nearing his hundredth 

birthday, and his physical strength was well-nigh 
15* (345) 


346 


PEMAQUin. 


gone. But his soul was as strong as a young man’s 
yes, stronger, and he seemed to live in it and to hold 
constant communion with the Being whom he had 
loved and served so long. And this filled him with 
such sweet charity, that though of course I could not 
tend him with Mrs. Strong’s skill, and sometimes for- 
got things, and blundered in others, he always said 
everything was just right, and that he hadn’t time to 
form a wish before it was gratified. 

And at last his birthday came, and he was one 
hundred years old. And I was privileged to carry 
his dear little grandchild and place it in his arms : for 
there was another birthday in the house, and a life 
beginning just as his was going out. Tears of joy- 
rolled down his aged cheeks, and he blessed the 
child, and then said, ‘‘ I thank Thee, O Christ, for the 
joy that has come to my sorrow-stricken children. 
Spare this little one, and let him grow up to be a 
preacher of righteousness. And now what wait I for 
but leave to go home to be with Him whom my soul 
loveth. Lord, call me home to-day, to be with Thee 
in Paradise.” 

I stood awe-struck by his side a moment, and then 
took the baby back to his mother. Father Strong 
welcomed me with a smile as I returned to him, and 
asked me to turn him upon his side ; I did so, and he 
put his hand under his cheek, looking as peaceful as 
a child. 

I leaned over him and asked him how he felt. 


RUTWS JOURNAL. 347 

“ Delightfully ! ” he said, and fell into a gentle 
Sleep. 

Mr. Strong came in repeatedly during the day, but 
there was not another movement, and just as the sun 
was setting he drew his last, painless breath. 

All v/e had asked was that he might live to his 
hundredth birthday, and to bless the child. It was 
not a death to mourn over; it was one to remember 
with sacred and solemn joy. 

And the little life that had just begun, how it 
claimed us all ; how happily it broke in upon the 
household so long written childless ! 

Father Strong’s funeral was something quite won- 
derful. Ministers came from all over the State, and 
everybody in Pemaquid who was not detained by 
sickness or the care of little children was there. The 
men even left their haying and every sort of work to 
pay respect to the oldest and best man they had ever 
known or were ever likely to know. 

Alice is three years old to-day. And her papa has 
been to see her. He wrote to ask Kezia to bring her 
to the parsonage to see him, and did not come here 
at all, of which I was very glad. And yet I saw him, 
and heard him preach a wonderful sermon for a 
young man. Of course I should not have gone to 
meeting if I had known he was going to preach. 
They all knew it, but took care not to tell me. Am 
I glad or sorry that I heard that sermon ? I think I 


84S 


PEMAQUID. 


must be sorry, for there is a lump in my throat now 
And yet, it is a comfort to see that the love I once 
felt for him was not wasted on a nobody ; was not 
the idle fancy of a little country girl. 

He must be very much displeased with me not to 
so much as call ! 

However, he may be engaged to some other girl, 
and so have forgotten all about me. In that case he 
will be taking Alice away from us. The thought is 
terrible. 

There are plenty of girls in love with him, I do not 
doubt — that is, if he often preaches such wonderful 
sermons. It sounded like Baxter and Owen and 
other old writers grandma taught me to love. Grand- 
ma would have feasted on such preaching. 

And to think he did not even call ! But I am glad 
he did not. 

And I am glad that I have kept writing to him 
about Alice. He is not the sort of man to be ham- 
pered with a girl’s whims. And my reluctance to 
write to him about Alice was a whim. 

I think I shall have to spend a day of fasting and 
prayer. My head runs upon Juliet in a most un- 
seemly way. And I have no right to look at second 
causes. It was God who separated me from what I 
loved too much, and it is He who has poured so 
much sweetness into my cup that I have often felt 
too happy to live. 

Still he might have just called. 


RUTH^S JOURNAL. 


349 


And now here comes Kezia. I have kept out of 
her way hitherto, but now I am in for it. 

‘‘ Well, Ruth Woodford, did you ever in all your 
Varsal life hear such preachin’ ? Why, it’s laid me 
flat as a pan- cake. I don’t feel no bigger’n a flea. 
All Pemaquid is afire about it ! And you ought to 
ha’ seen how awful fond he is of Alice. And how she 
went on about you! It was P..ath this and Ruth 
that ; but he never said a word to encourage her. 

He don’t look very rugged, and ft wouldn’t take 
much to upset him. What makes you so silent, child ? 
Why don’t you say nothin’ about that ’ere sermon ? 
’Taint possible you haint forgiv’ Frank for the visit 
he made you a year ago? Well, you needn’t be a 
mite afraid he’ll ever try to see you ag’in’, he’s as 
good as promised me he never will. You think he 
might have called here ? Where would ha’ been the 
good of that? You could like him as a friend? 
Pshaw ! it’s no such thing. When a young man 
makes a friend of a girl it means he’s going to court 
her. And when a girl wants to make a friend of a 
young man it means that she’s a-throwin’ dust in her 
own eyes. And men may preach beautiful, and pray 
beautiful, but it don’t foller that they’ll make good 
husbands. In fact, it’s often just the contrary. Frank 
Weston’s throwed you overboard, and then you’ve 
had your turn and throwed him overboard, and kep 
his little lambkin besides ’ 


350 


PEMAQUID. 


Pemaquid has grown so fast that the meeting-house 
has been enlarged twice, and now a new one is to be 
built immediately. And ours is one of the families 
appointed to leave our dear old church and become a 
part of the new one. It has been a great blow to us 
all. It will be impossible for us to love a new min- 
ister as we do Mr. Strong. Kezia has cried about it 
till the tears have worn two lines down her cheeks, 
where the skin is off, and I can’t deny that I have 
cried too. One has need of patience in this chang- 
ing, evil world. But grandma’s lessons are ever re- 
peating themselves in my ears. She could not en- 
dure faint-heartedness, and I will not give way now, 
though many things conspire to try my courage. 

When I was a little girl I used to take it for granted 
that I should have children and grandchildren of mj 
own. I see now that I never shall. But I have my 
dear young rogue Samuel, whom God only can take 
from me, and I have, for a season, this little miracle 
of sweetness, our precious Alice. But we may have 
to part with her any day. Well, one’s life doth not 
consist in the abundance of what one hath. What a 
blessed, beautiful truth that is I 

FRANK WESTON TO REV. MR. STRONG. 

Dear Mr. Strong: You will excuse my troubling 
you with my affairs, when I tell you that my health 
has broken down again. I made a mistake in under 
faking such severe and varied labor as this large^ 


MRS. STRONG SENDS FOR RUTH, 351 


growing church requires. My physicians insist on 
entire rest for six months at least. I am to try a sea- 
voyage dpring a large part of that period. Of course 
this is a heavy trial, and I am tempted to envy the 
ass and her colt, of whom it was said, ‘‘ The Lord 
Jtiath need of them.’’ But though perplexed, I am 
not in despair. I believe the Master has yet some- 
thing for me to do. So if you hear of any vacant 
New England pulpit, six months hence, I beg you 
will bear me in mind. I have learned to cease from 
picking and choosing how, when, or where I shall 
pitch my tent, content that each day brings me a 
day’s march nearer home. Not that I have any mor- 
bid desire to die young. Only there shoots athwart 
my soul at times the blissful thought of becoming 
like Christ, in seeing Him as He is. 

Remember me most kindly to Mrs. Strong, kiss the 
baby for me, and believe me 

Affectionately and gratefully yours, 

, Frank Weston 

MRS. STRONG SENDS FOR RUTH. 

“My dear child, here is a letter from Frank that 
troubles me. He has broken down in the midst of 
his brilliant career, and has had to abandon his im- 
portant field of usefulness, never to resume it.” 

“ But, dear Mrs. Strong, there is nothing I can do 
about it. I am very sorry for him, but there is noth- 
ing I can do.” 


852 


PEMAQUID. 


“ We shall see. In six months the new meeting, 
house will be done, and Mr. Strong says that if at 
that time Frank is in working order, he shall recom- 
mend the new church to call him to "be its pastor. 
Now could anything be more delightful? I always 
have loved him for his own sake and for his love to 
my children, and this climate agreed with him per- 
fectly. And Alice will be far better off here in our 
pure air than in a great smoky city. Dear heart, how 
your cheeks burn ! But you would have to hear all 
this sooner or later, and I wanted the pleasure of tell- 
ing you myself. Think now ; your father and mother 
and Kezia won’t have to give you up, and you will 
not have to part with Samuel or with Alice. Yes, it 
is going to be delightful all round. You are not so 
sure of that? We shall see.” 


XXXI. 

FRANK WESTON TO MRS. STRONG. 

D ear MRS. strong : I have received your very 
kind letter, with its seal of “ Do come,’' and am 
most grateful for it. It has pleased God to restore 
me to health, but my physicians still agree that I 
must renounce the excitement and fatigue of city 
life and spend the rest of my days in some rural re- 
treat, where I can have plenty of air and exercise. 
The call to Pemaquid, if accepted, would fulfill all 
these conditions. And I hardly need tell you that 
my heart leaped up at the thought of living once 
more near Mr. Strong and yourself, not to speak of 
other friends. But my doing so is out of the ques- 
tion. I can not trust myself. And I have other calls 
equally pressing from New England parishes, between 
which I must soon decide. 

I have a friend, a noble fellow, whom I think just 
the man for Pemaquid — a man superior to myself in 
every way. It costs me an effort, however, to say 
this, and I have had a tussle with both myself and 

the devil before I could make up my mind to do it 

( 353 ) 


^54 


PEMAQUID. 


For if Henry Althorpe is heart-free, and if he goes 
to Pemaquid and becomes Ruth’s pastor, he will be- 
come her husband ; of that I am sure. And I am 
mean enough, and enough of a dog in the manger, tc 
want to stand in his light if I can. Dear Mrs. Strong, 
you are like a beloved elder sister to me, and I have 
no one else to whom I can speak on this sore subject. 
But I do not intend to be nothing but a love-sick fel- 
low, making the most of my discomfort. With God’s 
help I am going to be a brave, cheerful man — yes, 
and a happy one, too ; for, after all, the human soul 
was formed for Him, and He can satisfy it. I long to 
get to work again. 

Faithfully yours, 

P'RANK Weston. 

P. S. — This mail carries my partial acceptance of a 
call to South Greenville. 

kezia’s opinion. 

“Well, now. Mis’ Strong, you might knock me 
down with a straw ! As true’s my name is Kezia 
Millet I thought Frank Weston was as good as settled 
in our new church, and our Ruth as good as married 
to him. Says I to Mis’ Woodford, says I, Every- 
thing’s turned out like a book, with a weddin’ to the 
end.* Not that I ever see any sense in doin’ that. It 
reminds me of a story of somebody’s mcetin’ a hired 
girl and asking her where she lived now, and her say- 
ing, ‘ La ! I don’t live anywhere now ; I’m married / 


KEZIA E OPINION, 


355 


If I was goin’ to write a book I’d put the weddin’ on 
the fust page. 

“ Well, I thought if anybody could help me to live 
consistent ’twould be Frank Weston. He aint ’way 
up in the clouds, dressed in glory, like Mr. Strong , 
he’s got lots of human natur’ in him, and can under- 
stand and pity them as has lots of it too. Oh, Mis’ 
Strong, the conflicts and temptations I have ! Even 
people like you don’t know anything about it. Why, 
you’re as even as the hem of my best apron. And 
it’s calculated to exalt the flesh to have an even tem- 
per. Not to say that you’re exalted ; I meant people 
in general. I’ve always took notice that them as 
could hold their tongues never had no charity for 
them as couldn’t. They think we fly out a-purpose. 
Jest as if people was corks in yeast bottles, and could 
keep in if they’d a mind to, and the yeast all the 
time workin’ powerful. Now, Mis’ Strong, I aint never 
tempted to tell lies, and your nice, sweet-tempered 
kind is. They don’t go to do it, but the first thing 
they know out it flies. They are apt to be kind of 
cowardly, and afraid of bein’ found fault with, and so 
they tell stories. Aint our Alice growed to be a 
beauty ? And with me and Ruth to bring her up no- 
body’ll ever hear her a-tellin’ fibs, though she’s got 
the temper of a angel. Seems to me we oughter call a 
town-meetin’, and send a committee after her pa and 
bring him here whether or no. I expect it’s all along 
of our Ruth that he won’t come, don’t you?” 


356 


PEMAQUID, 


MRS. STRONG TO FRANK WESTON. 

My Dear Frank: The new church, which had 
set its heart upon having you for its pastor, can hard- 
ly believe that you have refused its call. And I can 
hardly believe that you have acted so hastily in a 
matter of such importance. My husband says South 
Greenville is not the place for you, as the character 
of the people requires a different man and one older 
than yourself. And Pemaquid is growing apace, 
and needs the best spiritual work. It is extremely 
considerate in you to furnish it with a pastor it does 
not want — because it wants you — and to provide 
Ruth Woodford with a husband out of hand, when a 
husband is the last thing she is thinking of. It is 
true that in one sense it does not matter much in 
what part of the vineyard a man works, but in an- 
other sense it does. The people here know you as 
you never can be known elsewhere. As a crude boy, 
sowing his wild oats, we loved you and forgave you : 
as a man who has put away childish things, we love 
you yet better.. Now the new church is largely 
composed of young people whom my husband re- 
gards as his spiritual children, and he is very much in 
earnest about their future. And we both feel that 
you have been prepared for efficient work by the 
discipline through which you have passed, and have 
been led by Providence into the hearts of this people. 

As to Ruth, if you are the man I think you have 


FRANK WESTON IN ms JOURNAL. 35^ 


become, you will not let her stand between you and 
a plain duty. She and Kezia are your child’s devoted 
mothers ; they are both the most maternal beings I 
ever met. Neither of them needs to marry; their 
hearts are satisfied with loving God, and Christ, and 
duty, and little children. I will own that I clung 
fondly, and for a long time, to the hope of seeing 
Ruth your wife ; but it seems plain to me now that, 
while she may learn to respect you as her pastor, she 
never again will allow her heart to be stirred by hu- 
man passion. And once convinced of this, and that 
she has found her vocation, you will give your mind 
fully to yours. Thousands of human beings never 
marry ; they can not force Providence in this more 
than in any other thing. Leave your fate in God’s 
nands, and set yourself manfully at work. 

Affectionately yours, 

Faith Strong. 

FRANK WESTON IN HIS JOURNAL. 

After a day of fasting and prayer, I have decided to 
accept the call to Pemaquid. It ill becomes a minis- 
ter of the Gospel to set his heart on a human maiden, 
and I have done with such folly forever. Mrs. Strong 
has removed my last scruple about settling at Pem i- 
quid, by assuring me that Ruth will never think of 
me again but as her pastor; I therefore resolve nevei 
to think of her again but as a parishioner. The 


358 


PEMAQUID. 


thought of living near my precious little daughter is 
very refreshing, and so is the thought of living only 
for Christ, crucifying the flesh and all its affections. 
Nothing now stands between my soul and Him. 

MRS. WOODFORD IN HER JOURNAL. 

At last our poor young church is rich in its new 
young pastor. During the last few years he has ma- 
tured wonderfully. It is delightful to hear him 
preach, and he is equally beloved by young and old. 
It is delightful, too, to see him with his little Alice, 
who is the only recreation he allows himself, with the 
exception of a daily romp with Samuel. 

Though he comes regularly every evening after cea 
to see the children, he rarely sees Ruth. They treat 
each other with great formality when they do meet ; 
there is something unnatural about the whole thing. 
She has become so very dear to me that I frequently 
speak of her to him, as to others, as she deserves; 
but he never makes the smallest response, and inva- 
riably changes the subject. Then, when I speak with 
admiration of his sermons, Ruth says, quietly, “Yes, 
grandma would have liked them.” 

To-day I almost lost patience with this apathy, and 
said to her: 

“ When you were so devoted to him, years ago, he 
was not half the man he is now. How you can help 
loving him is a mystery.” 

“ Perhaps I do love him,” she said, thoughtfully 


MJ^S. WOODFORD IN HER JOURNAL. 359 


'‘just as I should Owen, and Baxter, and Bunyan, if 
they were alive. But it would be wrong and silly for 
me to think of him now as I used to think of him 
when he was a boy. Besides — ” 

And here she stopped short, and would say no 
more. 

Kezia rushed in, a few hours later, with a red spot 
in each cheek. 

“We all know what that Stone girl is, and it 
wouldn’t never do for our minister to marry her.” 

“ Of course not,” I returned ; “ what put that into 
your dear old silly head ? ” 

“ Why, Mis’ Jackson see him payin’ her attention 
after meetin’ this afternoon, and she was so riled that 
she labored with him about it.” 

Half amused, and a trifle uneasy, I gave him a gen- 
tle hint the next time we met. 

“ Paying attention I” he exclaimed, “ why, she was 
caught in the rain, and as I passed down the aisle 
and out of the meeting-house, I held my umbrella 
over her head, as I should do to any man, woman, or 
child I stumbled on. Is it possible that people are 
so wanting in sense that they can make a mountain 
out of a mole-hill ? This is not my first annoyance 
of that sort,” he went on. “ Last week I met Miss 
Angela Daw, and she stopped to speak to me about a 
sick woman ; and in half an hour the old deacon came 
and warned me that the parish would be greatly 
scandalized if I courted that venerable maid. And 


3G0 


PEMAQUID. 


the day before yesterday I picked up somebody’s old 
brass thimble at the sewing-circle, and was twirling it 
about on the table, when a scrap of paper was placed 
before me by invisible hands, containing these words: 
‘ That is Cindy Green’s thimble that you are making 
so much of, and it looks particular" Really, a man 
hardly knows which way to turn under such circum- 
stances.” 

“ The only way to avoid their constant repetition,” 
I said, “ is to take refuge in matrimony.” 

In reply he took from his pocket and handed me a 
book containing an engraving of a youthful disciple, 
seeking and obtaining counsel from an aged man, in 
this wise : 

“ Say, where is peace, for thou its paths hast trod ? ” 

“ In poverty, retirement, and with God." 

“ I am experiencing too much of this sweet peace 
to wish to exchange it for another. And I hope, 
dear Mrs. Woodford, that you will take pains to have 
it understood in the parish that marriage is the last 
thing in the world of which I am thinking. I have 
enough to satisfy any mortal — retirement, poverty, 
and God. I have besides, a people who love me and 
whom I love, and a little daughter whom I think the 
most winsome and engaging of children.” 

“ I still think, however, that a minister needs a home 
and a cheery, helpful wife. You are young and strong 
and well now, but life will bring its burdens and Ils 


FRANK WESTON IN HIS JOURNAL. 361 


changes and you will need somebody all your own 
who will be to you what no other friend can be. An 
unmarried minister is a good deal like a bird with one 
wing or a boat with one oar.*’ 

I repeated a part of this conversation to Kezia that 
it might get round the parish that our minister had 
no matrimonial tendencies. 

“ Well,” she said, “ I’m beat. I thought he was just 
waitin’ for our Ruth to give in. But if he don’t want 
her, there’s plenty that does, and me and you we love 
her wonderful, especially you. Does he think she 
aint got book-learnin’ enough to make a good minis- 
ter’s wife ? Or what is it ? ” 

FRANK WESTON IN IIIS JOURNAL. 

I am a free man in Christ Jesus and haven’t an 
idol in the world. Ruth is not now more cold to me 
than I am to her. I should even be willing to unite 
her to Henry with my own hands. 

But “ sadder than separation, sadder than death is 
change,” and while I no longer seek her as a wife, I 
feel that she will not even be my friend. It is now 
more than a year since I became her pastor, and I do 
not think that in all that time I have had a half-hour’s 
conversation with her. And there are so many points 
v/here I need to consult with her about my precious 
little Alice. When I go to her house after tea she is 
either absorbed in her garden or invisible. 

And this is not because she fears another pursuit from 
10 


362 


PEMAQUID, 


me, for I have made no secret of the fact that I never 
intend to marry. It is very unnatural and unpleasant, 
and grows more and more irksome. I wish she was 
my sister. If she were, how I should love to tell her 
all my thoughts and plans and have her share in all 
my labors for this people. I would take a house and 
go to housekeeping and we should educate Alice to^ 
gether. And in the reaction that follows my sermons 
she would sympathize with and cheer me. 

But, alas ! she is not my sister ; not even my friend. 
And when I boarded with the widow Cutter she drove 
me nearly frantic with her tongue. And here at the 
spinster Gleason’s I am worshiped, waylaid, and 
waited upon and fed till I a7u frantic. How thankful 
r am that my study door has no keyhole and /las a 
bolt! 

RUTH IN HER JOURNAL. 

Of course I could not expect my minister to think 
of me as he did that day down in the orchard. An 
ignorant, stupid, country girl I And I never have. 

But I did not think the time would ever come 
when he would despise and almost hate me. 

I am sure he thinks I am in love with him. But I 
am not. I respect and esteem him too much for that 
and realize how fai he is above me till I ache. Oh, 
how heavenly-minded, how devoted he is. His ser- 
mons are like the books on which grandma brought 
me up ; they remind me of her every' Sunday, and 
then I miss her and feel lonesome. Miss Tabitha 


RUTH IN HER JOURNAL. 


363 


Gleason says he is so far above the world that he does 
not know roast-beef from bacon, and that she is afraid 
he is all soul. 

I wish I knew whether my management of Alice 
suits him. But of course it doesn’t. Kezia has pretty 
much given her up to me, and takes to Samuel. But 
though he is my own dear brother’s child, and just 
like him, and Alice is no relation, I am ashamed to 
own that I love her best. What can be the reason ? 
Susan Stowe says it is because she is our minister’s 
child. Susan grows spiteful as she grows older, pool 
thing. I dare say she doesn’t know it ; and perhaps 
she has her trials and can not always rise above them 
Perhaps I have spiteful fits, too. But 1 hope not. 
Yet when I think that Alice’s papa is likely to take 
her away from me to live with him, 1 feel torn to 
pieces. Rather than part with her I would go and 
be his kitchen-maid. 1 should not mind working for 
such a good man and his lovely child. 

He can’t say that 1 intrude upon him, at any rate. 
I lock myself into my room generally when he comes 
to see Alice and frolic with Samuel. Samuel loves 
him dearly. He will always be a good boy if we tell 
him our minister shall know it. He was very naughty 
at meeting last Sunday, and one of the tithing-meh 
hit him hard on the head. That will teach him how 
to behave in the sanctuaiy. 


XXXII. 

MRS. WOODFORD’S JOURNAL. 

M rs. strong came to see me to-day. She is a 
dear little bright woman, and our going to the 
other church has not disturbed our friendship in the 
least. 

I want to talk to you about Frank,’' she said. “ I 
do not think Tabitha Gleason makes him comfortable. 
I do wish he would get married and go to housekeep- 
mg. 

** He says he never shall,” I returned. 

“ Then couldn’t you take the poor fellow in here ? 
You have such beautiful housekeeping, and could 
make him so happy and at home here. He isn’t one 
of the sort to make trouble, and as he is now he 
would be a blessing to the house.” 

‘‘That is true,” I said ; “but — Ruth — ” 

“ What about Ruth ? ” 

“Why, I do not think she would like it. I am 
afraid she has never quite forgiven him for the past. 
At any rate, she does not share in the enthusiasm the 
rest of us feel for him. She always takes herself off 
when he comes, and when I speak of his sermons she 
talks about her grandmother. No, I am sure she 
would not like his coming here to live. And I doubt 
(3C4) 


FJ^ANK WESTON *S JOUENAL. 


365 


if he would like to come. He and Ruth do not 
harmonize.*' 

‘‘It is very strange. I thought their love for the 
child would be such a tie between them.” 

“ She never consults him about her management ; 
he never volunteers any advice. Perhaps he looks 
down upon her from the elevation he has reached. I 
suppose if he ever did marry, he would want a woman 
of culture ; a woman with literary tastes.” 

“ Bless you, what good could literary taste do him? 
It wouldn't love him, or sympathize with him, or see 
that he was properly fed. No, no, Ruth is just the 
little affectionate, kind-hearted, motherly creature he 
needs ; and what is keeping them apart, when that 
child ought to be drawing them together, I don’t 
see. But if, as I suspect, there is a misunderstanding 
between them, we must hope it will be cleared up 
providentially. And now I must go. I take it for 
granted you are all well.” 

“Yes; all but Alice. Alice is drooping a little.” 

“ It is the weather. It has been so sultry for nearly 
a week now. Shall I look at her? You know I have 
been consulting physician all her life. Why, Alice, 
darling, what’s the matter? Don’t look so mournful. 
You’ll fell better by and by.” 

FR/VNK WESTON’S JOURNAL. 

I said I had not an idol in the world, and in that 
spake 1 truly. But God has written me childless, and 


366 


PEMAQUID. 


pierced my heart with a great sorrow. I sit here in my 
lonely study, longing to hear the little feet climbing 
the stairs, and trying to say — nay, saying— Thy will 
be done. She faded away before we had time to 
feel uneasy. How I loved her! How I miss her! 
Patient little lamb, how sweet and docile she was 
through it all ! 

Ruth seems stunned. I looked to her, as the one 
who loved my Alice best, for sympathy. No one has 
given so little. But even this I must bear in faith. 
It is a bitter drop in a bitter cup. 

ruth’s journal. 

How can I write ? How can I eat, and drink, and 
sleep ? I always thought it would nearly kill me to 
lose Alice. But I never foresaw that even a worse thing 
could befall be. But to see his agony and not fly to take 
him to my heart ; not to dare to speak to him, to 
write to him, to tell him how I ache through and 
through to bear everything to save him a single 
pang — this is misery indeed. If God had only let 
me die, and left him his little treasure, the light of 
his life, the image of his saintly wife. I wrung my 
hands and prayed Him to spare her, and take me; 
over and over I besought Him, but He answered me 
never a word. 

Why should this fervent, heavenly spirit be thus 
dealt with? Was he not already seven times puri- 
fied? Had he made an idol of her? No! He loved 


KEZIA INTERFERES. 


367 


God better than he loved her; she was all he had^ 
and he justified Him in taking her from him. Never 
did I witness such faith, such grand, such sublime 
submission ; just the very Christian graces I admire 
and value the most. Let me have them, too. Though 
He slay me, let me trust Him. 

FRANK WESTON’S JOURNAL. 

Sharp as this blow is, I could bear it better but for 
Ruth’s want of sympathy. Out of her wealth of 
i'iowers, she has not offered me one to lay on my 
child’s coffin. Apt as she is at administering conso- 
lation, she offers none to me. And I should be so 
soothed if she would be to me as a sister in this time 
of my sorrow ; put kind arms around me ; speak lov- 
ing words ; support my drooping faith ; pray with me 
and for me, and talk of my Alice to me ; speak of the 
home to which she has gone ; magnify Christ, and fill 
me with joy in Him. A man in trouble needs a 
woman to lean on. Dearly as she loved Alice, she is 
not crushed as I am ; she is stronger, and she looks 
down on my weakness. 

KEZIA INTERFERES. 

** Now here’s just where it is, and I can’t stand it 
no longer. Here you sit, and you a man, and a real 
good man at that ; and you’re a-pinin’ to have our 
Ruth fly in by that ’ere winder and bind up your 
wounds. And there she sits a-wearin’ and a-tearin’ 


368 


PEMAQUID, 


because she’s achin’ to do it, and dursen’t. Every- 
body but me’s as blind as bats ; you be, and our 
Ruth, she be. You two love each other to distrac- 
tion, and have all along ; and is she to speak fust, I 
want to know? You needn’t think I aint got no 
feelin’s ’cause I come and scold at you. I’ve cried 
my eyes out to think of you havin’ to lay that sweet 
lamb away in the ground, and my heart it will be 
laid low in the grave with her when you do. But — 
now don’t you go to dyin’ of joy : she aint dead ; she’s 
been in a trance, like Mr. Tennent, but she’s come 
to, and has eat hearty, for her. And if she aint been 
and broke the ice between you and our Ruth, my 
name aint Kezia, and as the French woman said, 
‘ What’s the use of bein’ a woman if you have to 
look at things when you don’t want to see ’em ? ’ ’* 

KEZIA SINGS ONE DAY IN HER KITCHEN- 
0, what a mass of ignorance 
We mortal women be ! 

How we refuse to walk by faith. 

And walk by what we see ! 

How many times I’ve cried for fear 
The baby it should die. 

And almost seen her takin’ wings, 

Straight into glory fly ! 

How ofien I have quaked with fear 
Lest on some dreadful day 
Her pa should come with cruel hands 
And snatch our bird away ; 

How often trembled lest some spark 
Should fall in love with Ruth, 


KEZIA SINGS IN HER KITCHEN, 369 


And tear her from my breakin’ heart 
To dwell with him, forsooth. 

And how we all bemoaned the fate 
That threatened us ere long 
With loss of our dear church 
And blessed Mr. Strong ! 

And now jest see how things turn out ! 

Kezia Millet, look 
And tell me if it isn't like 
A story in a book : 

The baby, she aint died, but growcd 
Into a lovely girl. 

With dimpled hands and rosy cheeks. 
And hair that can’t but curl ; 

Her pa, he’ll never take her hence — 
Our Ruth will never go 
A single step from Pemaquid 
And all who love her so ! 

'Tis true, we all have had to leave 
Our own beloved church. 

But ’taint like Providence to leave 
His people in the lurch ; 

And our new minister’s a man 
The very stones can love ; 

He’s not an angel — didn’t drop 
Right down from heaven above — 
He’s made of jest such stuff as I 
And other mortals be ; 

He’s had to fight the world, the flesh, 
And Satan, too — all three ; 

He’s had his falls, as I’ve had mine, 
He’s had his sorrows, too ; 

And when his people suffer theirs. 
Knows what to say and do. 

A son of consolation, he. 

And going everywhere 


370 


PEMAQUID. 


With strengthenin’ words and kindly deedi^ 
And loving, tender prayer. 

The Squire, O how glad he is 
To have once more a son ! 

Mis’ Woodford thinks for such a man 
Too much can ne’er be done ; 

And Ruth, our Ruth, the momin’s broke 
For that dear soul at last ; 

She’s sippin’ Paradise to pay 
For all the wo’ that’s past. 

A little robin aint more plump, 

Nor skips more light than she; 

Yet she's a pillar in the church, 

And proper glad I be ! 

Aye, there goes our new minister. 

Them children on his back, 

And he, I do believe my heart. 

The merriest of the pack ! 

Well, if to paint the happiest home 
On earth my hand was bid, 

1 shouldn’t be afraid to say 
It is in Pemaquid 1 


THE WORKS OF ELIZABETH PREHTISS. 


STEPPING HEAVENWARD. With a brief Sketch of the 
Author. Cloth, 12mo, 400 pages. $1.00, net, postpaid. 
Same. New cheap edition. Cloth, 16mo, 
ornamental ink stamping. 50 cents, postpaid. 

Same. Paper, 8vo, 8 illustrations. 25 cents, postpaid. 

It is a story of the Life of Faith, with the charm of naturalness and human 
sympathy. This makes it acceptable as well as pure, strong and helpful.— 
N. Y. Observer. 

PEMAGUID. A Story of Old Times in New England. Cloth, 
12mo, 370 pages. $1.00, net, postpaid. 16mo, 50 cents. 

We regard it as one of her best books.— Evangelist. 

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A story which embodies the results of thirty years of experience and reflec- 
tion. Religion and h>ve alike are made the foundation of a true home. 

As wholesome as it is entertaining, and conveys many instructive lessons in 
its graceful and flowing narrative.— Intelligencer. 

URBANE AND HIS FRIENDS, Cloth, 12mo. 287 pages. 
Enlarged edition. $1.00, net, postpaid. 16mo, 50 cents. 

Full of kindly and genial counsel, marked by great tenderness and simplicity 
of spirit, and very earnest and helpful.— Roston Journal. 

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net, postpaid. IGmo, 53 cents. 

Aunt Jane’s Hero is so like people we meet that we are anxious to have 
them read the book, in order to profit by its teachings. We like it and believe 
others will. - The Advance. 

GOLDEN HOURS. Hymns and Songs of the Christian Life. 
Blue cloth, 16mo, silver edges and stamping. 75 cents, 
postpaid. 

We do not think there is a poem in this book which it will not do one good 
to read, while there are many which will quicken the aspirations and desires.— 
Christian Weekly. 

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Sketches. Cloth, 12mo, 275 pages. $1.00, postpaid. 

Incidents of common life wrought np into a series of interesting sketches 
bearing the seal of good taste, inventive fancy, and rare practical wisdom.— 
N. Y. Tribune. 

HOW SORROW WAS CHANGED INTO SYMPATHY. 

Words of Cheer for Mothers bereft of Little Children. 
Cloth, 16mo. $1.00, postpaid. 

For those who need such consolation w'e can imagine that this volume would 
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hiends Had w-e occasion to send such a volume to a friend, w'e have 

rarely met one which would answer the end so tYioronghly.— Churchman. 

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from the German of Friedrich Holme. Cloth, 12mo. 
$1.50, postpaid. 

It is as picturesque as the best of Tennyson’s Idyls, and it is as mnsical, 
though the music is rougher, and less perfect m its cadence.— TAe Christian 
Jnlelligencer. 











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